


we have never seen a greater day than this

by Lediona



Series: A Royal Night Out [1]
Category: A Royal Night Out, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (For one night only), Alternate Universe - Royalty, Falling In Love, John is a soldier, M/M, POV Alternating, Sherlock is a Prince, VE Day, WWII, a royal night out AU, meet cute, royalty/commoner, saying goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-09-23 16:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17083760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lediona/pseuds/Lediona
Summary: Peace.At long last.It’s VE Day and Prince William desires to join the celebrations. It is a night of excitement, danger and the first flutters of romance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It appears that I have a thing for film AUs so here we go with another one! This story generally follows the same structure as the film, but it's been molded to fit our lovely Sherlock and John.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely betas @zigster-ao3, @88thparallel and @eternaljohnlock!

"God bless you all. This is your victory! It is the victory of the cause of freedom in every land. In all our long history we have never seen a greater day than this. Everyone, man or woman, has done their best. Everyone has tried. Neither the long years, nor the dangers, nor the fierce attacks of the enemy, have in any way weakened the independent resolve of the British nation. God bless you all..."  
Winston Churchill  
8th May 1945

***

~~Four o’clock in the afternoon~~

Peace.

At long last.

Sherlock stood at the north east-facing window, looking out past the Victoria Memorial onto the Mall. Following the broadcast of Churchill’s speech from Downing Street, the Royal Family had waved to the people down below Buckingham Palace for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, when they had gone back inside, Papa and Mummy were quickly led away through the interior of the palace by a host of counsellors and aids, speaking rapidly about what was to happen next, and Mycroft had followed, always the dutiful heir, leaving Sherlock alone in the Council Room. 

The barricades and sandbags of the last five years were currently hidden by the throngs of people that had flooded the area outside the palace. Union Jacks of all sizes were being flown by the crowd, joined occasionally by the Stars and Stripes of the United States, and the proud dancing of the flags seemed to resonate with the joy of those holding them. 

As he watched the people cheer and dance below, an unexpected, sympathetic surge of adrenaline rushed through him. He found that he wanted to be amongst them. A rare desire, certainly, for unlike his brother, he felt more at home in the libraries of the palace than performing his royal duties as prince. Today, however, he needed to be out there with them where he could measure and catalogue this new, invigorated spirit. This post-war jubilation undoubtedly was a different energy than that of any ordinary day. 

His brain whirred, rapidly shuffling through the experiments he could perform to gather enough data to adequately capture the historic importance of V-E Day. Number of people in the streets? The heart rates of those celebrating? Pints of ale and spirits consumed? Number of births recorded nine months from today? Sherlock clapped his hands together under his chin - the possibilities were endless! He would, however, have to be allowed out of this gilded cage first. 

He ran a hand down the front of his uniform, smoothing out a wrinkle and trying to regain control of himself. Sherlock sighed. There was only one way out. One aggravating and painful way.

“Mycroft!” he yelled, turning swiftly away from the window. He strode across the room, narrowly avoiding the chairs and side tables that blocked the most direct path to the gallery. The door was opened swiftly by one of the silent, ever-present footmen as he approached.

When Mycroft did not appear immediately - where was he? - Sherlock started toward their private chambers, shouting his brother’s name into each new room he entered. It wasn’t until he reached the interior drawing room that he came across Mycroft, who had the day’s newspapers spread on the table before him, a cup of tea at his elbow, and his face hidden behind one of the broadsheets. 

“Do try to find your dignity, brother mine, instead of bellowing down the corridors like an angry chimpanzee,” Mycroft drawled, a slender hand reaching out to grasp the teacup before withdrawing behind the paper once more. 

Sherlock ignored him. “We are going out.”

The newspaper stilled for a moment before being lowered to the table and Mycroft’s raised eyebrows and compressed lips came into view. “What on Earth could you possibly mean by that?”

“It’s V-E Day and we will be celebrating. Out there.” Sherlock pointed towards the windows. 

“Why, pray tell, would we do such a thing?”

Sherlock studied his brother. Mycroft had settled into his chair, fingers clasped across his stomach, a bemused look flitting across his features, as if Sherlock was being particularly dimwitted. 

“You are aware that today is an historic day for this country, for the world, are you not?” Sherlock sneered, seating himself in his chair across the table as if he was setting up for one of their games of chess. 

“As a matter of fact, I am. More aware than you.” 

His brother knew how to strike a nerve. Five years his senior, Mycroft had spent the war as a Lieutenant of the British Army, only a ceremonial position, but one that allowed him to shadow the King and actual military commanders as they devised strategies, deployed troops, and whatever else they did behind the doors that were closed to Sherlock. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, had been deemed too young to actively participate in the war effort until last year, when, at 18, he was forced to act as an officer in the London Home Guard. This mostly consisted of him being photographed performing meaningless tasks that wouldn’t get him injured. Wartime rule of the monarchy - do not risk the life of the heir or the spare. This meant that Sherlock spent the majority of the war bored and irritated. But now was his chance to break these confines and actually do… something. He needed to get out of here.

“Yes, you played your part very formidably, Mycroft. Well done, and my heartiest congratulations to you for your role in winning the war.”

Mycroft inclined his head and pressed his lips together more firmly. Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair. Apparently this would take some convincing.

He tried again. “Germany has surrendered. Papa is busy preparing his address to the nation, Churchill is currently...” Sherlock gestured vaguely, “negotiating a treaty, and the people have taken to the streets of London. The world is experiencing a profound sense of happiness following years of horror, chaos and death, and I want to be a part of it.” 

Mycroft smirked. “Am I to understand that you suddenly wish to express patriotic sentiment?”

“Oh, do contain yourself. I wish to do nothing of the sort. I simply meant that today marks the end of a war, the likes of which we will never see again, God willing, and our people are able to breathe a sigh of relief and celebrate the fact that they still have blood pumping through their veins and, if they dare to believe it, there is now the opportunity to live the life they had only seen in their dreams. So we can choose to honour the sacrifices of our people by waving from a balcony and giving speeches, or we can be with them as they experience this new peace.” His elocution tutor would have been proud of the way he delivered that speech, clear and full of conviction.

Mycroft eyed him and Sherlock did his best to return his gaze unwaveringly. “That was a very diplomatic answer, Prince William. One that may convince Papa and Mummy, but I know you far too well. Why do you really want to go out, Sherlock, and why must I go as well?”

Various potential responses flickered through his brain and he dismissed them as quickly as they arrived. Mycroft would know, so he opted for honesty. “I am curious,” he stated simply. “I would like to know what they are experiencing and understand what this day means to them, why they chose to flock to the palace, and to hear what they are saying to each other. I want to study it. And you know very well that Papa and Mummy would never let me venture out on my own. I was not even allowed to perform my ridiculous Home Guard duties without being watched.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you are with me, however, I am certain they would consent. We could go incognito and no one would be the wiser.”

Silence settled between them for a moment.

“And what do you propose we do whilst out celebrating amongst the people?” Mycroft asked, sipping his tea. 

Victory! Sherlock hid his smile and tried to feign indifference. “Just get me out of this palace and I’ll be happy. We can, as they say, see where the night takes us.”

“I highly doubt Papa will permit us to be quite so laissez-faire in making our plans.”

“Well, you shall just have to convince him,” Sherlock responded, grinning at his brother and signalling to the footman for a cup of tea. 

Mycroft watched him for a moment, shuffled the newspapers into some semblance of order and stood gracefully from his chair. “I will speak with the King and Queen about your request. However, I will consider this as a favour to you and the next time you neglect your princely duties, I shall not hesitate to use it to keep you in line. Are we clear, dear brother?”

Leave it to Mycroft to approach this like an international negotiation, but Sherlock was willing to play along if it meant he would be free for an evening.

“Perfectly, Prince Henry.”

Mycroft gave him a curt nod and departed the room. Sherlock waited until the door had been closed once more before slouching in his chair and grumbling into his teacup about the offensive nature of siblings. Taking a sip, he quickly discarded the cup of lukewarm tea on the table and levered himself out of the chair and onto the sofa nearest the windows.

Placing his hands beneath his chin, Sherlock closed his eyes and sifted through the information about London that might assist in planning out his adventures. Trafalgar Square was definitely on his list. A pub or a club - a place that did not cater to the upper echelons of society. He let the room fade away, making a mental map of potential routes between destinations.

***

~~Seven o’clock in the evening~~

Sherlock stood before the mirror in his chambers, scrutinising his appearance as his valet made final adjustments to his tie and sleeves. 

“Sir, are you certain you wouldn’t be more comfortable in your tails or perhaps your tuxedo?” Collins asked, a worried frown creasing his forehead. Collins had been eyeing his choice of tweed ever since Sherlock had pulled it out of the armoire after Mycroft’s announcement an hour ago that they were permitted out of the palace.

“No, Collins. This is perfect. I am not Prince William tonight, you must remember. I am simply Sherlock, a common Londoner out celebrating V-E Day. No one must recognise me!” Sherlock was practically giddy at the prospect of donning a disguise. Granted, he still looked very much like himself, but he hoped that his informal dress and the fact that no one expected him to be in the streets would be enough to prevent him from being identified as royalty.

Twisting slightly to the side for one final look, Sherlock nodded with satisfaction and moved towards the door, receiving a dark grey overcoat en route from Collins. He threw it around his shoulders as he marched across the corridor, freeing his right knuckles in time to rap sharply on the door opposite. 

As expected, the door was opened promptly by a footman, permitting Sherlock entry to his brother’s chambers. There was a black overcoat hanging near the mirror and a bowler hat laid out on the table. The valet was brushing the shoulders of Mycroft’s black dinner jacket as Mycroft himself straightened his cufflinks to his satisfaction. 

“Why are you dressed like that?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at his brother. 

“And I should ask why you are dressed for hiking in the hills around Balmoral,” Mycroft shot back, signalling for his overcoat.

Sherlock glanced down at his outfit and a blush spread across his cheeks before he could suppress it. This was too fine a tweed for hillwalking and Mycroft knew it, but it did not stop him from being a pompous worm. “In-cog-ni-to,” he said, enunciating each syllable clearly. “That was the plan. You look like you’re preparing to dine with foreign dignitaries at a state dinner.”

“Unlikely, as I would be required to wear my uniform on such an occasion.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Regardless, you will look entirely out of place next to me. I demand you change at once.”

“If you would have chosen something more befitting your station, then we would not be having this discussion.”

“You are not grasping the concept of being incognito, are you?”

“Sherlock, I was able to get us permission to go on this little adventure tonight so I suggest you be grateful we are going at all instead of complaining about my attire. If I am to go out tonight, I shall wear something appropriate, but I will agree to leave my crown behind.” Mycroft pursed his lips in that aggravating way he had when he thought he was being funny.

His brother was the most frustrating person he had ever had the misfortune of meeting. 

“Fine,” he said after a moment. “You look ridiculous, so long as you are okay with that. Now let us go say goodbye to Papa and Mummy.” Sherlock whirled around before Mycroft could respond and made his way into the corridor, with Mycroft following leisurely behind him, hat tucked snugly under his arm.

Papa was seated at his desk, writing, as they entered the library. Mummy closed her book and rose from her chair, moving to stand in front of them. She took in Sherlock’s outfit with a look of vague disapproval and confusion, but before she could ask the question he could see in her eyes, there was a knock on the door.

Sherlock turned to see a British Army officer enter the room and stand at attention just inside the door. Scanning the man quickly, Sherlock took note of the solitary crown on his epaulets - just a Major then, despite his age. His hair, although mostly covered by his hat, was starting to grey at the temples. Career soldier. Unmarried. While he gave off an air of nervousness at being in the presence of the royal family, he held himself with confidence. 

“Major Lestrade, thank you for joining us. You were recommended most highly by General Erskine and I appreciate you putting aside your own celebrations to accompany the Princes Henry and William tonight.” His father’s slow speech still managed to command the room and Sherlock’s brain stuttered to a halt. Accompany them?

“Yes, Your Majesty. I am happy to be of service.” Lestrade replied, bowing his head as the King rose from his desk and approached. 

Sherlock faced his father. “What do you mean by this,” he demanded, indignant.

Papa ignored him and spoke once again to Major Lestrade. “Princes Henry and William will be going to the Ritz, where they will be received in the ballroom. There they can dine and converse, listen to my speech, and if they feel so inclined perhaps waltz. I expect them to be back at the palace by one o’clock in the morning. Do you understand, Major?”

“Yes, sir.” Lestrade said at the same time as Sherlock screeched, “The Ritz!” He looked at Mycroft, whose mouth was twisted into a smug line, and realised the restrictions of their outing were not a surprise to his brother. Now his choice of attire made sense.

“You knew!” he accused, jabbing Mycroft in the chest.

“William,” Papa scolded, turning an unimpressed gaze on his younger son. “I am granting you permission to take in the atmosphere outside the palace because of the importance of this day. However, you are still my son and a crowned prince of this realm. I will not see you disgracing your name or this house by gallivanting through the crowds in the streets. You go to the Ritz or you remain here. Those are your choices.”

Mummy, who had been observing the proceedings thus far, finally asked, “And what are you wearing, darling? You will have to change before you depart.”

This is not what he had planned at all. Irritation was threatening to spill over, but he tamped it down so as not completely destroy any chance of being allowed to leave. “I am dressed as I choose to be dressed and the Ritz would have no option but to admit me, even if I were wrapped in a bedsheet. I am, after all, a crowned prince of this realm.” 

His tongue frequently got him into trouble, but he knew he was still safely within the limits as his father just looked at him, eyes hardening slightly, before deciding it was not worth the fight and instead turning to Mycroft and Major Lestrade to discuss the details of their outing. Sherlock didn’t listen. If he was going to be forced to attend a sanctioned party at the Ritz under the annoyingly watchful eye of his brother and this Army yes-man Lestrade, then he would need to be exceedingly clever in how he gave them the slip. Best to lull them into a false sense of security beginning now.

He dutifully said goodbye to Mummy, kissing her on the cheek, and nodded stiffly to Papa before following Mycroft and Major Lestrade out of the room. 

“What the hell, Mycroft?” he hissed, pitching his voice low enough so that the Major wouldn’t hear as he led them through the palace, undoubtedly to one of Papa’s chauffeured vehicles. 

“Oh, honestly, Sherlock. What did you expect? To walk out the front door of Buckingham Palace to join the crowds on the Mall? Of course Papa was only going to agree if he was able to decide where we went.” 

Sherlock cut him off. “Then you did not ask properly! You can’t have done!”

”I suggest you be glad we are going at all and try to enjoy it instead of scowling at me like a child.”

Shoving his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, Sherlock harrumphed and sped up his pace to put a bit of distance between himself and his brother. 

***

~~Eight o’clock in the evening~~

Sherlock remained stubbornly silent during their journey, despite Mycroft's attempts at conversation. When the car pulled up to the Ritz, Major Lestrade, seemingly uncomfortable with the icy atmosphere between his charges, leapt out from beside the driver and opened the door for them. The flags on the front of the vehicle gave them away as members of the royal family and the people on the pavement turned to look, gasping in recognition. Sherlock set his jaw and quickly mounted the steps of the hotel, pushing his way past the revellers spilling out of the door. 

The Ritz, usually a place of refinement and grace, was positively thrumming with people and noise - music drifting out of the ballroom, laughter and bits of conversation rising in happy bursts, glasses tinkling as they were raised in toast, shoes clacking against the marble in the grand foyer. Sherlock paused near a table of towering champagne flutes to observe the guests as they moved frenetically through the space, up the stairs, into the ballroom, towards the exit. It was a hive of activity. 

Military officers in their dress uniforms, medals shiny against Army green or Navy blue, gathered in groups, some accompanied by women in evening gowns, pearls, and gloves. Sherlock spied a particular General with his arm around a woman who was most definitely not his wife, his cheeks reddened from laughter and alcohol. A few minor nobles were present as well, Sherlock recognised them from tedious events he was forced to attend throughout the war, where they bemoaned the loss of life on the battlefield while being perfectly aware of the fact that due to their status, they, nor their sons, would have ever ended up there. Hypocrites, Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. Waiters rushed back and forth, fetching empty glasses and delivering new drinks before the guests even realised theirs were empty.

At his shoulder, he could sense Mycroft’s approach but refused to give his brother the satisfaction of acknowledging him. Instead Sherlock focused on trying to identify the types and quantities of alcohol being served, making note of them in his mind in case the information was useful later. He could sense Mycroft becoming impatient and Sherlock’s lips pulled into a small smile. 

Finally, his brother had had enough. “Sherlock,” he said, keeping the angry hiss out of his voice as best he could, “come along.”

With that, Mycroft performed a precise about face (most likely to show the officers in the room that he had military experience as well - Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again) and led the way to a reception room off the main entrance. Major Lestrade stood off to the side, spine straight and eyes ahead, clearly waiting for Sherlock to follow his brother before bringing up the rear. Having a chaperone was hateful. 

Sherlock stomped after his brother, throwing a glare at the Major, and upon entering the room was promptly announced to those in attendance - 

“His Royal Highness, Prince William.”

All eyes in the room quickly focused on him. Sherlock maintained a neutral expression as his upbringing had instilled in him, however a shiver of discomfort ran down his spine at the attention. The men bowed and the women curtsied as was required and gradually conversation resumed. A waiter stepped forward to take his coat. Mycroft was progressing down the receiving line that had formed in the middle of the room, currently listening to Lady Janey Campbell, wife of the Duke of Argyll, talk absolute drivel, no doubt.

While he should follow behind his brother and perform the same greetings, he struggled to move from his position just inside the door. As he deliberated, Major Lestrade stepped up beside him and spoke.

“Your Highness, I will wait just outside if you need anything. I hope you enjoy your evening.” This last statement grated on Sherlock’s nerves - how was he supposed to enjoy himself surrounded by aging nobles and his brother whilst accompanied by a chaperone? He turned to fix his eyes on the Major to his right, taking in small details about the man. 

Sherlock pulled himself up to his full height and in a harsh whisper, unleashed his deductions. “The Army was not your intended career path. Your father was a clockmaker and he was training you to take over his business, but this tutelage ceased unexpectedly, perhaps with his untimely death, no, he became ill and you could not manage the shop so it was sold off. Instead you went out to seek alternative employment, working odd jobs throughout your teenage years.”

He watched the Major’s eyebrows creep up, which Sherlock assumed would lead to a flush of anger and a possible outburst of fragile ego typical of small men. However, given their company and Lestrade’s military discipline, it may be unlikely. Without missing a beat, he continued, “Joining the Army seemed like a decent option for a young man with no formal education, especially when there was no war being fought at the time - small chance of injury or death - so you signed up intending to serve only a few years, but you surprised yourself and your officers with your natural leadership skills, and moved up quickly through the ranks. Now here you are, a veteran of the Mediterranean Front, no home, no wife, and considering yourself lucky to have survived the war but with no idea of what to do next. Excuse me, Major Lestrade, if I do not accept your platitudes or suffer your watchful eye.” 

The Major stared at him, unblinking and silent.

Sherlock released a brief snort and turned his attention to the cuffs of his shirt, fiddling unnecessarily with the basic cufflinks he had chosen for the evening.

Beside him, Major Lestrade shook himself briefly before exclaiming, “Bloody hell!”

He did not, however, sound upset as Sherlock had expected, like they usually do. Interesting. Turning back to the man, Sherlock could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tried to work it out.

“How did you -”

“Easy. I observed, something most people are incapable of doing.”

Major Lestrade looked skeptical. “You observed my life story,” he asked, his tone leaning towards impertinent. He caught himself just in time and quickly added, “Your Highness.”

“Indeed. It was obvious.” Sherlock had no compulsion to explain further, for when he did so, people were quick to make their displeasure known and judged him as abrasive or abnormal, regardless of his royal status. The Major looked ready to ask more questions, however, so Sherlock quickly dismissed him.

Major Lestrade gave him a precise salute and exited the room. 

Sherlock followed his brother, speaking to various lords and ladies and accepting their well-wishes and attempts at flattery. He responded as necessary, but seeing as this required little of his attention, he began cataloguing the room. With Lestrade outside, he would need to devise a plan to exit the Ritz without being noticed.

The reception room was a formal space with a polished parquet floor and gold and crystal chandeliers drawing the eye. Chairs lined the walls where guests were seated, sipping champagne and chatting. Large colourful bouquets of nasturtiums, zinnia and irises dotted the room, filling the air with an overwhelming lush fragrance.

Large windows lined the walls, but these started at chest-height and were frequently blocked by floral arrangements atop tables or statues. Sherlock could not see any mechanism that would easily open the windows either, limiting their possibility as an escape route. Besides the main entrance, there were two other doors leading out of the room, but nearer the external wall of the hotel. They were most likely not used by guests; Sherlock made note to observe how frequently they were used and by whom.

He came to the end of the receiving line and stepped off to the side of the room, back to the wall, which gave him a clear view of the room. Mycroft was now in deep discussion with two older gentlemen, one being the Duke of Argyll and the other a nervous, mid-ranking Army Officer, who seemed to be striving for nonchalance at being included in such company. As long as Mycroft was engaged in conversation, Sherlock stood a greater chance of escaping his watchful eye. 

A waiter emerged from the door on the right, carrying a tray of decorated cakes and sweets to a table laden with food along the opposite wall. Kitchens, then, Sherlock noted. It would be possible for him to get out that way. However, he was unfamiliar with the layout of the lower level of the hotel and the staff might question his presence, especially dressed in his tweeds. The door on the left stayed stubbornly closed, giving Sherlock no greater insight into what lay beyond it.

Sherlock ambled further into the room plucked a glass of champagne off a tray being held stoically by a middle-aged waiter - stiffness in right arm, wounded-in-action early in the war - in the corner, aiming to give the impression that he was settling into this tedious soiree. He pressed the glass to his lips and pretended to take a sip, tongue darting out by reflex to clear away the droplets that remained behind. He suppressed a shudder - champagne was truly awful. Mycroft appeared to revel in holding a glass in his hand, like it made people take him more seriously. It seemed Mycroft was always trying to prove himself a man. 

Caught up in his mind, Sherlock had allowed the dull noise of conversation to wash over him until he was interrupted by the mention of his name. 

“. . . Prince William. Bit of an awkward duckling, that one.” A woman’s voice floated to his ears from the other side of an enormous floral arrangement.

A second voice joined hers. “Doesn’t quite know how to the wear the crown, does he? Not like his older brother. Prince Henry has such a sense of duty.”

This whole evening was proving to be a disaster. Now, in addition to being trapped at the Ritz with a chaperone and his pompous brother, he had to listen to strangers offer up their opinions of the royal brothers, in which he invariably came up short.

“Quite right. He commended himself quite well alongside the King during the war. It’s a shame the younger does not seem to be cut of the same cloth.” 

“It must be difficult to manage such a boy.”

Gossip was generally boring and easy to ignore, but something about how this pair of old women were critiquing him made his blood boil. He edged around the floral display slightly, glancing through greenery at the side, allowing him to take in each face and note that he did not know either woman, at least not by sight. They had not ever been at court, of that Sherlock was quite certain. What did these decrepit, moth-eaten, fur-covered lesser nobles know about him? 

Before the women could progress any further in their assessment of his failings of duty and comportment, he decided to confirm their assumptions and swiftly stepped around the decor to join the pair.

Looking between them, taking note of their widening eyes and shaking hands, Sherlock twisted his face into a harsh smile and let his words escape in a hiss. “It is rather fortunate then, since I seem to fall well below your standards of royal excellence, that I am only second in line for the throne, is it not? I am, therefore, able to shirk my duties and be as troublesome and dismissive as I please, for it shall not impact upon your small lives in the slightest.”

In the middle of his seething invective, a movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. A man had just emerged from the door in the corner, carrying an armload of coats and he was making his way towards a small group of people preparing to depart. A cloakroom, of course! Sherlock had been distracted by Major Lestrade earlier when his coat had been removed by one of the staff and he had failed to notice where it had been taken. Stupid, he berated himself. Would the cloakroom be just a cupboard or would it be connected to other parts of the hotel? He tried to picture the corridor outside and where other rooms ran off of it. 

One of the women made a soft noise and he dragged his attention back to the pair. They were now inconsequential and he walked away swiftly, eyes darting between the door in the corner and Mycroft, who, thankfully, was still engaged in conversation with a small group of nobles and Army officers across the room.

His time spent sneaking about the palace and various other royal residences without drawing the attention of Papa, Mummy, Mycroft or the multitude of servants and guards now served him well as he moved silently and quickly through the party, shoulders drawn up and head down, disinviting any conversation that some unwitting fool might try to lob at him.

Reaching the door a few moments later, Sherlock took one last look around the room to ensure he had not been noticed and with a brief prayer sent to up to the gods that he had chosen the right route to escape, he pulled the door open a fraction, slipped through and pulled it closed behind him.

The cloakroom was mercifully empty and there, at the other end of the wide corridor packed with overcoats, stood another door. Sherlock smiled widely, mentally congratulating himself for his own cleverness, then went in search of his overcoat.

Finding it alongside Mycroft’s on the second rack along the wall, Sherlock threw it around his shoulders and walked towards the door across from him. Best make this a quick escape. Pressing his ear to the carved oak, Sherlock couldn’t make out any sounds on the other side, but was not certain it wouldn’t deposit him in another reception room. It seemed quiet, however, and a better option than returning to the dull party behind him or staying in this cloakroom.

Through this door, Sherlock found himself in a narrow, utilitarian corridor, stripped of the opulence of the rest of the hotel. There were doors every fifteen meters or so off to his right, undoubtedly leading back into the main areas of the ground floor. 

He needed to move quickly. Once it became clear Prince William was missing, every single officer inside would snap to attention. He spied a door on his left, along the exterior wall, and pushed on it, stumbling a bit as he emerged in the close lane behind the Ritz. The heavy door swung shut but he caught it before it slammed, gently closing it with minimal sound. To his right, a perpendicular lane continuing off in either direction with a brick wall rising up straight ahead. To his left, Sherlock could hear the main road and see pedestrians passing by, oblivious to the man observing them down the small lane. 

He turned right, anticipating that his pursuers – surely his absence had been noted by now – would guess he had made a break for the shortest path to freedom, and Sherlock thought it best to avoid the front of the hotel where he might risk being seen by someone who knew him. The lane was dark and damp, old crates and bits of rubbish lined the walls. There were two other exits from the hotel leading out onto it, but they looked rarely used. Sherlock hurried to the end of the lane and turned left at the junction, leading him away from the Ritz. 

Between the walls of the buildings, a narrow strip of the night sky was visible, stars twinkling merrily as if celebrating along with the people of London. Sherlock shook this fanciful thought from his head as he continued winding through the narrow lane. After another corner, Sherlock noted that the lane opened out, not onto a road but into a park, which he recognised as Green Park as he emerged the mouth of the lane, his mental map of London crystallising now with familiar landmarks in sight. He could hear the traffic moving along nearby Piccadilly and opted to go through the park to put some distance between himself and the hotel. It was the opposite direction from Trafalgar Square, but he could double back through Mayfair later. 

Green Park was quite dark at this time of night, lit only by the streetlamps along the edges and the headlights of cars as they passed. Thankfully, it was also a clear night so his path was aided by the light of the moon. As he crossed through the row of poplar trees that separated the park from the buildings along the northeast edge, he picked up the sound of heavy footsteps on the pavement behind him. His heart leapt in his chest and Sherlock took off through the dark. 

He stayed close to the trees, not wanting to move along the paths as they would leave him out in the open. He paused briefly to listen for further footsteps and when there were none, he cursed the grass for dampening any sound. He considered his options. While the trees formed a ninety degree turn to the left, if he followed them, he would end up back at the Mall and Buckingham Palace. While the crowds would be lively, he thought it best to remain as far from the Palace and its guards as possible. Instead he continued straight on, crossing the path that led directly to the Victoria Memorial and skirted the edge of Piccadilly. 

There were small groups of people scattered about the park, voices shouting in celebration or singing various patriotic tunes, off-key and loudly. Sherlock, still listening for the sounds of pursuit, kept to the shadows and focused on getting to the end of the park where he could more easily disappear amongst the more densely packed streets of Belgravia. 

Just as the trees thinned out and he was about to emerge into the glow of the streetlamps, he heard it. Laboured breathing, like someone had just run a four-minute mile. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and saw the outline of Major Lestrade against the trees. Since he would soon be visible by the light of the streetlamp, Sherlock opted for the element of surprise and took off at a sprint across the grass. Behind him came an exasperated cry of ‘shit!’ and the sound of Major Lestrade running to catch him. 

Ahead of him, there was about twenty metres of grass before he reached the pavement along Piccadilly, the edge of the street dotted with trees in that overly planned way of modern cities. Above the leaves, the Wellington Arch loomed in the centre of the roundabout ahead. As he neared the pavement, he realised with a jolt that there was a fence barring his path. He considered veering left or right to find an opening, but the Major, ten years his senior though he may be, was clearly in good shape, so he needed to lose him as quickly as possible and he was too out in the open in this part of London. 

With a quick glance to his right, Sherlock noted a taxicab approaching and with a burst of speed he hurtled closer to the fence, adjusting the length of his strides so he would catch the jump on his right foot. Placing his right hand on the rail, Sherlock vaulted his legs over with an easy motion, coattails flapping behind him, and landed gracefully in the street, right in the path of the taxi. 

The driver honked his horn, hoping to clear his path, but Sherlock took a step farther into the street and raised his hand, signalling the driver to stop. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the Major approaching the pavement - he only had a few more seconds to execute this getaway and that depended on the taxi driver. At that moment, a bus passed by on the inside lane of the roundabout, preventing the driver from swerving around him and the taxi came to a halt, stopping just centimetres from Sherlock’s knees. 

The driver was yelling at him through the windscreen, but Sherlock took three long strides around the taxi, flung open the door and folded himself inside.

“Trafalgar Square,” he demanded, looking out the window to see Major Lestrade at the fence, staring at the taxi in disbelief.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain John H. Watson wants nothing more than to spend VE Day in the peace and quiet of his sister's home. However, the night has other plans for him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading along so far and to those who have left comments! Hopefully this next installment is as well received!
> 
> And, as always, thank you to @zigster-ao3, @eternaljohnlock and @88thparallel for their help in pulling this chapter together! You're the best! x

~~Nine-thirty in the evening~~

“Sorry, mate. Traffic’s ‘orrible tonight. Not in a ‘urry, are ya?”

John had been gazing out the window lost in thought as he watched the streets of London roll by outside, but he startled out of his reverie at the driver’s question.

“No, not in a rush,” he responded, “Doesn’t look like anyone’ll be getting anywhere quickly tonight.”

“You was right lucky I was free when ya spotted me. Been busy all day, people going here and there to celebrate. You off to a party or summat?”

John snorted; the idea of him at a party was laughable. He’d joined a few blokes from his battalion on the Mall after they’d pushed and wheedled all day to get him to come. While the atmosphere was lively, it became clear quite quickly that his leg was not up for the challenge of standing about on the street and the tightly packed crowds made it difficult to use his cane properly. He’d begged off, leaving his mates behind to celebrate without his unenthusiastic disposition. 

After shuffling away from the palace, he’d managed to flag down the taxi, falling inside with a muttered direction to his sister’s address in Battersea, where he planned to have a cup of tea, massage his leg and fall into a bed that wasn’t surrounded by dozens of others like his bunk at the hospital or in the barracks. 

“Just a quiet night for me, I think.”

The driver nodded. “I’d say I’d like the same, but tonight’s an opportunity for cabbies like me. Lots of money to be made now that the war’s over and people willing to dole out for a taxi after years of walkin’. Be drivin’ ‘til sunrise, I expect!”

John offered a small encouraging laugh in response, hoping the driver would take a hint that conversation wasn’t necessary or desired. Thankfully, he did and John returned his focus to the world separated from him by a pane of glass. 

Union Jack bunting was strung across Piccadilly in a never-ending zigzag, the flags dancing gaily in the breeze. London was lit up in a way it hadn’t been since before the war, before the curfews and the blackout restrictions had taken effect and dampened the city’s nightlife. Along the pavement, people rushed in all directions - soldiers with arms slung about each other’s shoulders, laughing young women with their hair done up in victory rolls, and even some families allowing their children to stay up late for the occasion. As the taxi rolled along, John wondered what it would be like to be one of them, carefree and part of it all.

They were approaching the roundabout where Piccadilly spiralled off into various posh neighbourhoods in which John had never set foot. The taxi would carry onto Grosvenor Place, then wind its way over Chelsea Bridge before depositing him amongst the identical row houses of Ingelow Road. At this pace, however, it’d be nearly half an hour before they would arrive at his destination. John was grateful for the travel allowance he’d been granted by the Army due to his injury. 

“What the. . .” the driver muttered, slowing suddenly and beeping his horn. 

Suddenly the taxi screeched to a halt and in the split second before he flew off the seat, John managed to grab onto the door and braced himself against the force of the stopping vehicle. With his heart rabbiting in his chest, he realised a man was standing in the middle of the street, the bonnet of the taxi inches from his shins. He was standing with his arm outstretched, palm forward, as if commanding the taxi to stop. John immediately shifted to attention. 

“Get out o’ the way, ya lunatic! What the hell are you doing, standin’ in the street? I coulda hit you,” the driver ranted, gesturing wildly. “Still might if you don’t shift it!”

Somewhere in between disbelief and curiosity, John watched as the man strode around the side of the taxi, opened the rear passenger door and hopped in next to him. 

“Trafalgar Square,” the man ordered. His voice was imperious and he kept his gaze focused out the window opposite, paying no mind to the driver or John himself. John stared, words stuck in his throat, as the man folded his long limbs into the seat and arranged his coat with dexterous fingers. 

“What do you think you’re doing in my cab!” The driver was peering into the back of the taxi in the rearview mirror, eyeing the stranger as if to gauge how much much trouble he was going to be.

“I am in need of transport and you are a taxi. Now, please, drive!” He stated, keeping his gaze focused out the window. John could make out an Army officer standing at the fence, looking incredibly displeased.

The driver sputtered. “I don’t think so, pal. Who do ya think you are? You can’t just dart out into the street like that, ‘sides I already got a fare. Get out of my cab!”

At that, the man finally turned around and only then seemed to register that he was not alone in the backseat of the taxi. His eyes opening comically wide for a brief second as he took in John’s presence. The man was much younger than John had expected; he was all smooth skin, dark curls, and steely eyes. 

Behind them, a car beeped.

The taxi driver shifted into gear reluctantly, continuing along the roundabout in the heavy traffic. “I’m pulling over as soon as I can and you’re out of here, pal.”

Ignoring the driver completely, the man continued to stare at John, leaving John feeling discomfited and vulnerable. His eyes were relentless, and his scrutiny continued for far too long to be appropriate, particularly in such a confined space.

Finally, the man spoke. “Where are you going?”

“Wh-what?”

He sighed. “Where are you going in this taxicab?” he asked again, very slowly as if John couldn’t understand English.

John bristled. “What does it matter to you? This my taxi. You’ll have to get the next one.”

“Time is of the essence and I need to be away from here,” he responded, as if that were a justifiable reason for commandeering someone else’s taxicab.

“Oi! If you’re on the run, then you’re certainly not welcome in my cab!” the driver piped up. 

“It is nothing you need to concern yourself with, just a minor misunderstanding,” he waved his hand as if to brush away their concern. “I would very much appreciate it if you could take me to Trafalgar Square.” 

“You do realise that we’re heading away from there, yeah?” John said. “And anyway, he’s driving me at the moment, so it really doesn't matter where you want to go as you’re not his fare.”

The man seemed to consider this. “What if we make a deal? The taxi turns around, drops me in Trafalgar Square and then continues on to the destination of your choice.”

“Are you mad?” John answered, which seemed to imply that he had considered it as a possibility. “No. You’re getting out and I’m going home. You can make your own way to Trafalgar, I don’t bloody care how, but it won’t be in my taxi!” By the end of it, John realised he’d been shouting. He took a deep breath and settled himself back into the corner of the seat. What on Earth was happening right now?

They’d pulled onto Grosvenor Place by then and the driver seemed anxious to be rid of his stowaway. “There’s a side street up ahead. I’m stopping there, mate, and you better be off.”

“If we can just keep calm, I am certain we could come to some arrangement that suits us all.” The man said this like someone who was used to getting his way. His accent and his clothing were clear indicators that he came from money. The observation made John’s irritation prickle again.

The driver indicated his turn and pulled to a stop on the residential street. “Okay, this is your stop, mate, and you owe me ten shillings for the bother!”

The man looked like he was about to argue when another vehicle pulled up behind them, its headlights illuminating the interior of the taxi. 

Before John could even register what was happening, the man opened the door, lept from the taxi and took off down the street into the night, the driver shouting curses out the window after him. Without hesitating — and John would think back on this moment frequently in the future and wonder at his decision — John wrestled fifty shillings out of his pocket, thrust the coin at the driver, and exited the taxi after the man, limping as fast as he could in pursuit.

Illuminated by the headlights of the taxicab, the man darted across the narrow street and into a lane between two of the houses on the right, the darkness swallowing him. As John picked up his pace to follow, a shout came from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, John saw that someone had exited the other car and was now making his way across the street as well. John faced forward and focused on getting away as quickly as his leg would allow.

The light of the streetlamps faded into darkness beyond the entrance to the lane, and John worried that he’d lose the man entirely if he couldn’t keep up. His footsteps echoed off the buildings around him, getting muddled with the echoes from the other men involved in this ridiculous chase. Movement caught his eye to the left and he went barrelling around the corner, breathing hard - it’d been awhile since he’d exerted himself this much. 

“Wait!” he hissed, pitching his voice low so it was less likely to carry to their pursuer but loud enough to be heard by the man in front of him. He received no response, however, so John continued to run through the darkened alleys, chasing a taxi-hijacking loon. The fact that John was still following him must say something about his own sanity, but here he was nevertheless.

He rounded another corner, hoping it was the right direction and paused to listen for some indication of the man’s location. 

Silence. 

For the last few minutes, John had been focused on tracking the man by sound, and now he heard nothing except the nightly domestic noises of a London neighbourhood. Nothing behind him either. It seemed like both the mysterious stranger from the cab and his pursuer had disappeared into the night. 

Breathing hard, John cursed under his breath. Half an hour ago, he was on his way to a warm house and a soft bed, but now he was stranded in a strange area without transportation and a long way from Battersea. John placed his hands on his knees and tried to regulate his breathing, chest aching, as he began to assess his option for getting home now. Straightening up once he was no longer gasping for air, John began to move towards a well-lit street in the distance.

Out from the darkness on his left, a hand snagged his arm and pulled him sharply into an alcove in the exterior wall of the house, causing him to stumble. By instinct, he struggled against the grip of his attacker, knocking away the hand that had come up to grip the front of his jacket. The space was cramped, barely large enough to fit two grown men, and he cracked his knee on the brick wall in his attempt to free himself. Before he could yell, a strong hand clamped down on his mouth and another secured his arms, pulling him firmly against the other man. 

“Cease your flailing. It is only me.” His captor snapped in a harsh whisper, warm breath fluttering against the back of John’s ear. The deep baritone and precise elocution was instantly familiar to John. “I shall release you if you promise to not draw attention to our position.” 

Blood thrumming in his veins, John paused briefly before nodding his agreement and was promptly released. Turning around in the tight space, he found himself face to face with the curly-haired man from the taxi. He was focused, eyes and ears, on the alley beyond them, his thin frame radiating nervous energy. John’s mind was reeling with questions: What was going on? From what was the man running? Who was chasing them? Had he, John, lost his mind? 

While he tried to formulate the right question to ask, he heard himself hiss, “You owe me fifty shillings!”

The man looked taken aback, like this was the last thing he expected John to say. It surprised John as well, but he pushed the embarrassment aside and continued, “What were you thinking, jumping into my taxi like that and then running off like a madman? I had to pay off the driver as you went sprinting away on your long giraffe legs, not remotely concerned about small things like. . . manners and - and proper taxi hailing etiquette!” The absurdity of this statement caught up with him and he crowded closer to the man, trying to cover his floundering by being as assertive as possible.

John’s fury was met with a pair of unimpressed dark eyes staring down at him.

“As I stated, I needed to get away from a misunderstanding and your taxi, as you insist on calling it, though I did not know it was occupied when I flagged it down, was the most logical and expedient way to do so,” the man sneered back at him. “It is not as though you were en route to a destination of significant importance. It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion to drive me to Trafalgar Square as it would not have -”

“That doesn’t matter!” John erupted, voice bouncing off the stone walls surrounding them.

John found himself with a hand over his mouth again. 

“Hush! Undoubtedly, he is still nearby,” the man whispered, a note of panic rising his voice. Lifting his head, he focused his attention out into the lane, listening intently for any suspicious sounds.

With a grunt of irritation, John grasped the slender wrists and shoved them away. “What the hell is wrong with you? Until you tell me what’s going on, I’ll be as loud as I want!” 

Instead of answering, the man fixed him with a glare, turned his shoulder and stepped into the alley. Annoyed at being ignored and left behind – again! – John followed, hands in fists at his sides, muttering under his breath.

They walked quickly and silently for a few minutes, passing behind house after house until the man, alert to some signal known only to himself, took an abrupt turn and they ended up spilling out onto Buckingham Palace Road, Victoria Station looming in front of them. 

“This way.” The command issued so easily from the man’s lips that John bristled afresh at being told what to do. He was an officer, for Christ’s sake; giving orders was his job. As he was walking at a brisk pace, John had to jog slightly to catch up with him, his own leg giving a twinge and John stopped abruptly, looking down at his hands in dismay.

“You left it in the taxi.”

John looked up. The man was regarding him thoughtfully, a small curious smile playing at his lips. 

“Your cane. You left it in the taxi. However, the way you carried yourself just now indicates that the cause of your limp is not a physical injury, rather it appears to be just in your mind. Besides, that cane made you look far older than your age. Come along, in here.”

An indignant flush crept down his neck as John watched coattails disappear through the door in front of him. 

~~Ten-thirty in the evening~~

John seethed. 

How dare that man tell him anything about his limp - he had no idea about the injury John had sustained and the months of painful rehabilitation he’d gone through. To stand there, so full of himself and unmarked by the war, and tell John that it was all in his head! It was too much. Half of him wanted to storm into the pub - John had finally noticed the sign hanging above his head - and tell him off, perhaps take a swing at that smug face. The other half wanted to stomp away into the night, cursing the nameless man until his temper had diminished.

There was nothing stopping him from leaving, but the pompous git didn’t deserve to be let off the hook that easily, so with a muttered curse, he pushed open the door to the pub. A wall of warm air greeted him, smelling of too many bodies packed into a small space.

It was busy tonight, as was to be expected, but it felt too vibrant and loud to John. He stood on his tiptoes, peering over shoulders and between bodies to catch a glimpse of that annoyingly curly mop of dark hair. He was jostled by a man carrying four full pint glasses back to a table in the corner, who threw a ‘sorry, mate’ over his shoulder with a grin.

Finally catching sight of his...companion? kidnapper?...passing the bar, John pushed his way through the crowd, tracking his movements as the man wove away from him, claiming a table in the back corner. John followed.

“Would you care to take a seat?” The man asked, oddly formal, standing at the back of the chair opposite as though waiting for John to accept before sitting down himself.

John had approached ready to dress the man down and was slightly taken aback by his solicitousness and apparent obliviousness at having caused offense in the first place. “You still haven’t explained,” John said, squaring up with arms folded across his chest now, ignoring the chair in front of him for the moment. 

The man huffed out an exasperated sigh, turning to face John fully where he stood, his expression saying ‘what?’ as clearly as if he’d spoken. 

“I want to know what is going on and who that was, chasing us. I saw him from the taxi, the one at the railing by Green Park. He looked right displeased with you. Why is he after you? I don’t imagine that His Royal Highness sends his Army officers running through the streets of London for no reason.” 

The man didn’t respond so John continued, “You seem like the type of bloke who gets his own way, so whatever you’ve done, posh boy, it must have been pretty bad to be chased into an occupied taxicab by an officer of his rank.”

“You can put aside whatever fanciful notions you have created in your dull little mind.” John rolled his eyes but was ignored while the man continued, “As I stated in the taxi, it was a minor misunderstanding and I simply wished to be out of his presence as quickly as possible.” 

John snorted, “Yeah, sure. It all sounds so innocuous when you phrase it like that. Maybe running through dark alleyways while being chased is just an everyday occurrence for your lot then? And who are you, anyway?”

The man’s eyes danced warily over John’s face for a moment before he stuck out his hand, covered in a fine leather glove. John stared at it, uncertain of the implications of shaking the man’s hand, but eventually reached out his own tentative fingers and clasped the proffered hand. 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes.”

John tumbled the name around his head for a moment. Sherlock? Odd. “John,” he replied, “John Watson.”

“Well, now that we are properly introduced and you seem to have come to accept that I am not on the run from the law, can we sit? Then, once we are certain that we are no longer being followed, perhaps we can continue on our journey. Do you know the best way to get to Trafalgar Square quickly from here?”

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock’s statement. “Our journey? Who says I’m going with you?”

“Oh, please. You just jumped out of a taxi to, as you said, chase me through dark alleyways, do not now pretend like you are not enjoying yourself.”

He wanted to disagree, but he realised he couldn’t. John had enjoyed himself - the evening had taken a turn when Sherlock attempted to commandeer his cab. Following him had been stupid and impulsive and positively thrilling. John felt a grin curling at his lips and he let out a laugh. 

An answering smile flickered across Sherlock’s face, although it looked like he was trying to suppress it, rather unsuccessfully. John thought this genuine expression transformed his features and he lost the air of superiority. He seemed younger and softer around the edges in that moment. It made John wonder at the true story of his run from the officer, but he sensed he wouldn’t get that out of him, at least not right now. Maybe later. 

“Fine. You win. I’ll show you how to get to Trafalgar Square, but can we get a pint first?”

Sherlock looked uncertain. “I must decline. I -- I have no money with me.”

John shook his head with a laugh - of course this rich bloke, whose suit cost more than all of John’s possessions put together, didn’t have any coins on him. Just his bloody luck. “This round’s on me then,” he said, and with that, John struck off towards the bar to place an order, shoving confidently and sure-of-foot between other patrons.

After waiting an age for the barkeep to serve him, John made his way back to the table to find Sherlock sprawled in his chair, tapping incessantly at the table, unaware of John’s approach.

“Here you go,” he said, sliding the full pint glass onto the table in front of Sherlock, interrupting whatever thought that had been passing through the other man’s head. 

“Thank you, John.” 

He sat down with his own pint across from Sherlock and raised it. “Cheers, then.”

Sherlock stared at John’s glass for a moment, before removing his gloves and raising his own to meet it, clinking them together, causing ale to slosh from both glasses and spill down the sides. “Cheers,” he said in response, and John was fairly certain that such a common phrase had never passed Sherlock’s lips before. He may play at being relaxed, but he was clearly out of his element in a pub, and it was endlessly amusing.

“Well, drink up then. Don’t want that pint to go to waste.”

Sherlock took a tentative first sip and grimaced. “That’s awful! How do you drink that, John?”

The question only served to make John laugh harder, and receive a glare from Sherlock. John raised his pint glass and took a long, easy pull from it as though demonstrating how it’s done. He felt like he was teaching the new recruits how to drink on their first furlough from the Army. After a few more experimental sips, Sherlock settled back into his chair and said with a slight raise of his shoulders, “It is acceptable.” John nodded in approval. 

A few minutes later, the chatter in the pub died down as the barmaid shushed those closest to her and turned up the wireless positioned at one end of the bar. “Hush up, you lot. The King’s speakin’!”

From where they’re sitting, John can only make out an odd phrase here or there.

. . . speaking from our Empire’s oldest capital city, war-battered but never for one moment daunted or dismayed. . .

. . . armed or unarmed, men and women, you have fought, striven, and endured to your utmost. No one knows that better than I do; and as your King. . .

Across from him, Sherlock scoffed and began muttering under his breath. John shot him a look and then focused his attention back on the King’s speech.

. . . there is great comfort in the thought that the years of darkness and danger in which the children of our country have grown up are over . . .

“As if his own children were ever in any danger!” Sherlock exclaimed. Loudly.

The crowd near their table turned to look at him.

“It’s not like they did any actual fighting, locked away in their fancy palace. What does the King know of the actual struggles people had to face during the War?”

“How dare you!” One of the women in the group exclaimed, her eyes fixed on Sherlock.

“Sherlock, shut up,” John hissed, keeping an eye on one man who looked big enough and drunk enough to crush Sherlock.

The man edged nearer and snarled, “You, you little prick, are being disloyal and abusive to your sovereign.”

Sherlock just shrugged, “Well, it’s true.”

The woman put her hands on her hips, scolding Sherlock. “The King is trying jolly hard to offer words of encouragement and if you don’t want to hear him, then you can just piss off!”

“No one’s gonna take away from tonight, we’ve waited too bloody long for it, especially a little gobshite like you.” The man closed in on Sherlock, looming over the table.

John was on his feet immediately and moved behind Sherlock’s chair. “He’s just has a few too many, lads. Doesn’t know what he’s on about.”

Sherlock looked affronted. “I have only half finished my pint --”

“Sherlock!” John hissed. Could the little git just play along or did he want them to get a couple of black eyes? He grabbed Sherlock under the arms and hoisted him to his feet, pushing him towards the door and placing himself between Sherlock and the angry crowd they’ve attracted. “Apologies for my friend here. We’ll just be going. You folks enjoy the rest of the evening.”

There was some grumbling from a few of them, but John and Sherlock were allowed to push through the busy pub, stumbling slightly with the press of bodies around them, and reach the door without further incident. 

As they stepped outside in the cool night air, John took a deep breath and shook his head in dismay.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“Me? Why?” Sherlock looked genuinely confused.

“Did you not realise that those people were ready to have you drawn and quartered for insulting the King? Seriously, Sherlock, what was that all about?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Do you actually believe what the King was saying in his speech tonight? Did no part of it seem false or hypocritical to you, considering the difference between his station and that of those people in the pub?”

“Those people? Yeah, I suppose there is a big difference between us and the King, but not you, right? You were probably all buddy-buddy with the Princes at whatever posh school you went to!”

There wasn’t an immediate reply and John fidgeted under Sherlock’s close scrutiny, his grey eyes flashing. After a moment, Sherlock said, “It is true that I have connections that put me closer in rank to the King. However, I am still able to tell when he is saying a bunch of meaningless twaddle.”

John stepped closer to Sherlock and raised his chin so he could look him in the eye. “That’s all well and good, Sherlock, and you are free to think whatever you want, but people have struggled and faced tremendous loss over the last five years and they just might find the King’s words comforting, tonight especially. I know I do, so maybe you can just shut it, yeah?”

It didn’t sit right with John, Sherlock’s criticism of the King, especially given that he’d clearly not enlisted. Unlike himself, Sherlock had no idea what it had been like over in France, or what those families who’d lost loved ones in battle or in the air raids had gone through. A little understanding wouldn’t go amiss. 

Not backing down, John maintained eye contact until Sherlock gave a jerky nod and said, “My apologies.”

“Fine.” Sensing his point had been made, John turned on his heel and called over his shoulder, “We can get a bus to Trafalgar along here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve played fast and loose with the actual timeline of the events of V-E Day (much like the film did). The Royal Family made several appearances on the balcony of Buckingham Palace throughout the day and evening, but I’ve limited it to one for sake of simplicity. The King’s speech that was broadcast over the radio happened at 6pm, not 10.30pm like I’ve written, but where’s the fun in that?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock reach Trafalgar Square - what adventures await them there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things start getting exciting, folks! ;)
> 
> Thanks to my lovely beta bees @zigster-ao3, @eternaljohnlock and @88thparallel for their help in sorting this chapter out! x

~~Eleven o’clock in the evening~~

Trafalgar Square was a cacophony of lights and noise. 

He had only ever looked out on it from a chauffeured car, so to be amongst the crowd of revellers was like nothing he had ever experienced. Sherlock could feel the energy of it thrumming across his skin, lighting up each nerve with a delicious need to see, touch, and taste. 

From the edge of the crowd, Sherlock plowed a path to Nelson’s Column, the monument towering above the square. In his wake was John. Sherlock did not turn around to see if he was still there, he knew that he was, and that knowledge caused an unfamiliar wriggly sensation in his stomach which Sherlock tried his best to ignore. He pushed the feeling down and forged ahead, squeezing in between men and women of all ages as they danced and sang around him.

After long minutes of navigating the masses, they reached the base of the monument. Sherlock turned to look out at the sea of people, and John came to a stop in front of him. 

“Well, you’re finally here. Now what?” John asked, casting his eyes around. Although he had a benign smile on his face and did not look, at first glance, out of place, Sherlock could see the tension in the way he held himself that belied the truth. Despite the sharp lines of his uniform, Captain Watson’s shoulders were slumped, like he was drawing in on himself, attempting to blend into the crowd.

Out of everyone here, John deserved to be celebrating - not only was the war over, one in which he had fought at the western front, but he also survived a grievous wound. It struck Sherlock as highly unfair that John was uncomfortable amidst such revelry. Sherlock himself was not always comfortable amongst large crowds, but it felt right to be out here tonight, and he would do his best to tolerate annoying, simple-minded people if it meant that John was happy.

But now that the question of what was to happen next had been asked of him, Sherlock suddenly felt less certain of his determination to get to Trafalgar Square. Yes, there were an infinite number of things to observe amongst a crowd so large, but all of these people seemed incredibly dull in comparison to the man standing before him. He doubted that John would care about his list of experiments -- in fact, it was hard to imagine anyone finding the comparative wear patterns on soldiers’ uniforms interesting. No, John seemed like a man of action, drawn to uncertainty and adventure. 

Sherlock quickly amended his plans for observing the people and atmosphere in Trafalgar Square and decided, in a sudden burst of selfless confusion, to lie. “I am in search of someone,” he said, focus zeroing in on John, who unconsciously snapped to attention, sending a zip of excitement along Sherlock’s spine. “Well, to be more accurate, he is in search of me, but I would appreciate your help in keeping a lookout, and it could be advantageous to have an Army medic on hand if things go south.”

John looked at him sharply and asked, “How could you possibly know I was a medic?”

“It is obvious, John.” Sherlock sighed, maintaining a neutral tone of voice despite the excitement he felt at being proven right. 

After a few seconds of agitated silence, John asked, “What is? Tell me.”

Affecting nonchalance, Sherlock continued to gaze out over the crowd. He could feel John’s eyes on him but resisted the temptation to look back at him immediately. “To begin with, you have a desire to save people, even those as offensive as me, who put us both at risk in a pub full of drunken, patriotic subjects of the British Empire. It emanates from your very being. Most people would not have bothered to rescue someone they just met, let alone someone they suspected of possible dangerous or illegal conduct. You, however, did not hesitate to assist me, so I cannot fathom that you would have enlisted without seeking out a position that would allow you to save as many people as possible, therefore not just an ordinary soldier on the front lines, despite the fact that it would have fulfilled your sense of national duty. 

No, there would have been something more to draw you into the Army. It was not the path you envisioned for yourself, clearly. You are intelligent and capable, with a schoolboy dream of attending university for medicine, but that did not pan out as you had hoped. Trouble with finances -- a gambling problem. . . ah, your father.” Upon making this deduction, Sherlock stumbled, hoping he had not caused offense by revealing something so personal. John eyes widened, but otherwise he did not react. Sherlock quickly scanned John’s face for some indication that he had not pushed too far before continuing, “Well, becoming an Army medic must have seemed like a decent alternative then. Not to mention the fact that you are decisive and brave. Two qualities which were, I am certain, immensely desirable in a combat medic.”

“That was. . .”

Sherlock was not certain he wanted to hear the end of that sentence. It had never boded well for him in the past. “Invasive? Inappropriate? Bizarre?” he clipped out, bracing himself for whatever adjective John chose to deploy in response to his deduction.

“No, Sherlock,” John said, interrupting his spiral of uncertainty and giving him a questioning look. “That was incredible. I don’t understand how you did it, and yes, it’s a bit uncomfortable to have your life laid bare so easily, but it’s amazing nonetheless.”

Sherlock blinked and there was a beat of silence. “Oh.”

“Do people normally say those things when you make observations?”

“It does not matter.”

John snorted. “It does if they’re being arseholes to you.”

Sherlock smiled at John’s phrasing. It had been a long time since anyone had used the word ‘arseholes’ around him - it was not something that usually came up in polite conversation. As silly as it was to admit, it thrilled him to engage with someone without the usual barrier of politeness typically required of those addressing royalty, but the fact that John had instantly taken his side also made him feel oddly wrongfooted. 

“Yes, well, it’s in the past.” He flapped a dismissive hand to distract from the flush he was certain was creeping up his cheeks. “Come on, John. I need a better vantage point.”

With that, Sherlock turned to face the lion above him and, placing his hands on the cement base, pushed himself up, knees scrabbling slightly to gain purchase on the hard surface. He stood, reaching out to balance himself on the back of the bronze sculpture, and looked down at John’s annoyed face below him.

“You’re joking, right? How do you expect me to get up there?”

“Oh, please. Where is that can-do spirit that won the war?”

“I lost it when the bullet hit my shoulder.” It was only the fact that Sherlock could hear the sarcasm dripping off John’s words that stopped him from feeling guilty for the possibility of making John uncomfortable. 

Besides, John was already attempting to clamber up next him on the statue. It was obvious that his left shoulder was still weak; John pushed himself up easily with his right arm but struggled to straighten his left. Sherlock was tempted to help him, but he thought John might not appreciate the gesture. Instead, he waited until John had a knee under himself and then extended his hand, allowing John the choice of taking it or not.

Once John was stable, he looked up and noticed his hand, ungloved and waiting. Sherlock saw him debate for a second before taking it, palm warm against Sherlock’s own, and pulled himself to his feet. Sherlock turned to look out over the crowd, pretending to survey the revellers, in order to give John a moment of privacy to sort himself out. It also gave him the opportunity to quell the little thrill over the fact that he had casually touched another man, skin to skin. He could not remember the last time that had happened - childhood, perhaps. No one touched him. Sherlock doubted they would willingly do so anyway, had manners and royal etiquette not prevented it. 

“Right,” John interrupted his musing. “So what does he look like, this chap that’s looking for you?”

Sherlock paused before responding. There was the option of putting a stop to this silly lie right now or allowing it to unfurl into whatever adventure awaited them tonight. And Sherlock was never good at resisting temptation. “He has dark hair and a fair complexion and a permanent sour expression, like he has just tasted spoilt milk. He is slightly taller than average height, and although he is only in his mid-twenties, he appears closer to middle-age.” 

Whilst he had started out describing a generic any-man, he quickly drifted into what could be a description of Mycroft, and Sherlock figured that it was better to have them both on the lookout for his obnoxious brother, who was undoubtedly searching for him, than have his evening curtailed before it had truly begun.

“Poor bloke.”

Sherlock snorted. “You would not be saying that if you knew him.”

John looked interested at that. “Oh? What’d he do?”

“That I cannot disclose. However, just know that he is truly vile.” That might have been an exaggeration, but Sherlock was not yet ready to forgive the betrayal he had experienced tonight at the hands of his brother and father. The Ritz! It still made his blood boil. Well, he was away now, and he planned to enjoy every minute of his freedom, with John by his side, even if he had turned the night into an unintentional farce. “If you see someone matching his description, please inform me.”

“This man. . . does he have something to do with the officer who was chasing us earlier?

Sherlock glanced at him in surprise - usually, Sherlock found that people were extremely slow on the uptake, missing details and connections that were so obvious to him. John, however, kept up easily, the only person he had met in a long while who was not tedious. 

“Yes, the officer was pursuing me at the behest of this other man. My quarrel is with him; the officer was merely following orders. Although, I assure you that I have committed no crimes nor even flirted with illegality, regardless of your earlier concerns.”

“All right.” John’s tone rang with feigned scepticism, which was also disproved by the grin stretching across his face. He had come to stand in front of the lion’s paws, their shoulders bumping as they surveyed the scene before them. “So, do you think he’ll be here? In Trafalgar Square, I mean.”

“I certainly hope not.”

“Okay, well. . . what now?” John asked, slight confusion tingeing the question. 

If Sherlock were being honest with himself, he was uncertain of what was to happen next, but he was determined not to let that show to John. “We take it in, John. It is a celebration, is it not?” 

Sherlock spotted a small Union Jack flag laying on the base of the statue, abandoned by its previous owner, and with a grin to the man by his side, he bent down to retrieve it. 

“Here you are. Wave that around a bit and you shall blend right in.” He passed the flag to a bemused John, who gave it a few half-hearted flicks. 

“This is most definitely what was missing from my evening.”

“I had thought as much.”

“Don’t you need one as well?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I shall leave the flag-waving to you. You are so remarkably good at it. And besides, I have a different mission.”

John cocked his head. “Oh?”

With a smirk, Sherlock said, “Wait here,” and leapt down from the lion statue.

The crowd seemed denser than it had when they arrived. All about him were groups of friends laughing and singing and couples in various amourous states, from dancing and hugging to openly necking, which causing Sherlock to blush and avert his eyes. He pushed passed them, not wanting to interrupt; it was highly unlikely that they could help him anyway. He waded amongst them, casting his eyes about to find a potential target. 

Finally, he clocked a group of soldiers, arms draped around each other, singing loudly and so off-pitch that Sherlock could barely identify the song. He listened for a moment and picked up the tune to _The World Will Sing Again_. Pleased that it was one he knew, Sherlock plastered a lopsided grin on his face, relaxed his posture and stumbled his way towards them, joining in at the chorus.

“For there’ll be happiness around the bend for you,” he belted out as his shoulder connected with the soldier nearest him. He grabbed onto his arm as though to steady himself and continued with the song, “and then the dreams you dream will all come true!” 

As he had hoped, the soldiers welcomed his addition to their chorus with a cheer and the five of them continued with the song. Sherlock could feel the eyes of the crowd on them, but he shrugged off the natural discomfort the attention brought and threw himself into the role of drunken reveller. No one would recognise him like this, he was certain. As the song came to an end, Sherlock was swept into a group hug and he laughed, quite genuinely, at the ridiculousness of the situation. 

“God save the King!” one of the soldiers shouted, which was repeated by not only his friends but all those within earshot, and Sherlock felt compelled to join them, lest he incur a repeat of the situation in the pub.

Sherlock scanned the soldiers in front of him. The two in the middle were clearly the leaders of the group, one tall and dark and the other stockier with blond hair. The other two soldiers were laughing, seeming happy to go along with whatever shenanigans they stumbled across. He touched his forehead and said, “Thanks for the song, chaps!”

“Aye, no problem, mate,” the tall one replied. “We needed a solid tenor for our new singing group. Now that you’re here perhaps we can make a real go of it!”

The blond snorted. “Someone’d have to teach Ste here how to sing in tune.”

The soldier, apparently named Ste (although Sherlock was certain that was short for Stephen) lowered the flask and elbowed his friend in the stomach. “Oi, at least I got rhythm. Besides, our new friend here can cover for my shite singin’, and he’s handsome enough t’ distract from your ugly mug, Barnes!” he exclaimed, his lilting Northern accent making the words difficult to discern at first.

Sherlock watched as Barnes sputtered and shoved Ste in the shoulder. “Yer one to talk, mate. I need more booze if I’m gonna have to look at your face all evening.” With that, he pulled a flask from his pocket and waved it at the group.

“No, no, no. As much as I love you lot, I’m not planning on spending the night with you, not with so much skirt out tonight.” The blond soldier said, scanning the crowd around them.

“Not that they’d be interested in you, Benton, with someone like Cheekbones here about!” The tall soldier gestured to him and then grabbed the flask from Barnes, unscrewing the cap and taking a pull, before passing it to Sherlock.

Ste nodded and said, “Looks like your night’s goin’ even further downhill, Benton. First, the Curzon Club, and now Cheekbones. No tail for you!”

“Oh, fuck off. There’s enough to go around, even with Cheekbones tagging along.”

Despite having no intention of going anywhere with them, Sherlock played along. “No need to compete, lads. We shall all find someone!”

“Even Barnes?” 

Sherlock nodded seriously, clapping him on the shoulder. “Yes, of course, even Barnes.”

“Thanks ever so much for that vote of confidence, lads,” Barnes grumbled in response, earning a laugh from all his mates. 

Sherlock turned back to Ste, “What happened at the Curzon Club?” 

The question earned another round of taunts and jibes thrown in Benton’s direction, which continued for a bit before Ste got around to answering him.

“Well, you see,” Ste began, with the air of someone settling in to tell a tale, “we’d heard it was the place t’ be tonight, lush party, lots of booze, lots of girls, so we turned up lookin’ t’ join in on the fun. It’s a swanky place, mind, and Benton, here, strides up t’ the front door like the bloody Prince of England and we follow along behind, but before we can make it through the door, we’s turned away. No infantry allowed, apparently. Broke poor Benton’s heart t’ see all those pretty girls goin’ in and him not able t’ follow. Right, Benton?”

Benton rolled his eyes. “Terribly heartbroken.”

The taller soldier butted in, eyes glinting, “You gotta admit that you were proper cheesed, Benton!”

“Well, weren't you, Mac? You saw the way he looked at us, like we wasn’t worthy of setting foot in the place. We won this bloody war, the least they could do was let us celebrate the end of it in style!”

Mac shrugged. “Aye, but I’m also not going to let it bring down the night, ‘specially with all the girls right here. Who needs the Curzon?”

The others nodded in agreement, but Ste said, “Woulda been fun t’ go in though.”

“Aye, it would’ve been good fun.”

Next to them, someone struck up another song and Mac was distracted, his voice joining in with the crowd, and the others followed suit. Sensing his opportunity, Sherlock sang and jostled his way to the edge of the group and then merged into the crowd, disappearing between the waving arms and raised voices to make his way back to the column and John, flask smuggled into the inner pocket of his coat.

After receiving a few elbows to the kidneys as he pushed his way through the throng of people, Sherlock finally re-emerged at the foot of the lion statue to see John leaning against it, feet crossed at the ankle, flag held loosely in his left hand, and one eyebrow raised, clearly waiting for him. Not that Sherlock thought that John would have disappeared, but the fact that he was still here made Sherlock inexplicably happy. 

Feeling lighter and more sure-footed than before, Sherlock leapt up onto the base of the statue and sauntered over to John, leaning against the lion next to him, close enough so their elbows brushed.

“What was that all about? Make some new friends?”

“Oh, that. A means to an end and nothing more.”

With a flourish, Sherlock produced the flask from his pocket and handed it over to John. 

“Did you go chat to those yobbos just to nick this?”

“Possibly.”

John laughed and took the flask, unscrewing the top and pausing before he took a sip, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s over the top. “You little sticky-fingered thief!”

Sherlock shrugged and relaxed against the lion, trying to assume an air of indifference but was easily distracted by John’s lips connecting with flask and his throat bobbing as he swallowed down the liquor. Their fingers connected briefly as he passed it back to Sherlock, who suppressed a shudder at the contact. Alcohol did not normally tempt him, but the idea seemed more appealing now, here with John, so he put the flask to his lips, wondering briefly if he could taste any trace of John’s lips, before taking a large gulp.

It burned.

Sherlock sputtered and coughed and managed to keep the liquor down instead of spraying it all over John and the people crowded below them. How was it possible that people drank this alligator bile and enjoyed it? John was laughing at him, he could hear it through his coughing, and patting him on the back.

“Breathe, Sherlock, breathe.”

“That was terrible, John!” Sherlock glared at the other man and pushed the flask back at him.

“Hey, now, it’s not my fault - it’s just some strong whisky.” Still laughing, John raised the flask again. “Not much of a drinker, are you? Was it worse than the lager?” At Sherlock’s nod, he said, “Go slow. Take small sips.”

Sherlock eyed the flask with suspicion and took it gingerly from John’s grip. He was more restrained with his next drink, swallowing the minimum amount of liquor possible and have it still count as a drink. Unsurprisingly, it burned, but Sherlock swallowed it without coughing this time. John looked on proudly, Sherlock was pleased to note, and they passed the flask back and forth for awhile, listening to the cacophonous symphony of the shouts and songs from the crowd. Upon his fourth, or maybe fifth, sip of whisky, he had a stroke of inspiration.

“Come to a party with me?” The invitation burst out of him before he had time to consider how to phrase it more politely. 

John had just taken a sip and startled at Sherlock’s loud and urgent question. It was now his turn to splutter and cough. He blinked up at Sherlock. John’s lack of response made Sherlock suddenly uncertain. Had he been too forward? He shifted his weight to his left foot, away from John, and cut his gaze out over the crowd before glancing back at the man on his right.

To his great relief, John’s face softened into a brilliant smile, his eyes positively twinkling. Although Sherlock was usually loath to employ such poetic language, in this instance it was simply the truth. Sherlock felt himself grinning in return.

“Where are we going?” 

Determined to maintain some of his usual brooding mysteriousness after the blatant eagerness the moment before, Sherlock merely tilted his head, raising an eyebrow in challenge, and jumped down from the statue. At the bottom, he waited for John to clamber down beside him and set off to the west, John following closely behind. 

 

~~Midnight~~

After asking (begrudgingly) for directions once as they made their way out of Trafalgar Square, Sherlock led them down Piccadilly near Green Park once again -- it seemed that they were going in circles tonight, but it was highly unlikely that either Mycroft or Major Lestrade would still be lurking nearby. Surely, they’d moved farther afield when they’d failed to locate Sherlock in the area. Shrugging off that niggling concern, Sherlock led them north through Mayfair and finally the pair turned onto Curzon Road.

The Curzon Club was located in an imposing Edwardian building, its tidy brick walls and ornately carved door were framed by white Greek Corinthian columns, which drew the eye up to the decorative pediments above. Up a short flight of stairs, edged with wrought-iron railings, a doorman was unexpectedly positioned behind a podium, lit by the warm orange glow of the streetlamp. Sherlock had visited any number of imposing buildings, but he still recognised grandeur when he saw it. Nevertheless, he marched up the stairs with determination, John trailing behind him.

“Good evening, doorman, please let us through,” Sherlock said imperiously, putting years of issuing royal commands to use, and slapped his hand down on the edge of the podium. Perhaps that had been a bit too aggressive.

The doorman looked up, startled. “Are you on the list, sir?”

“The list?” The existence of a list threw him for a moment, especially as they clearly were not infantry, like Benton and the boys, but Sherlock rallied and spit out a smooth lie. “I should certainly hope so. Mister Sherlock Holmes and Captain John Watson, guests of Major Lestrade and General Erskine, if you please.” Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and sniffed, affecting an air of unconcerned nonchalance. John’s snapped his head around to look at him, eyes widening at the lie.

The doorman nodded and began scanning through the long list of names in front of him, his stubby index finger keeping his place as he moved down the page. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and waited for the man to reach the end, when he would realise they did not belong. It did not take long.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the doorman said, giving them a pitying look. “I cannot allow you in if you are not on the list.”

Behind them, a queue had started to form and Sherlock could hear some disgruntled muttering. Ignoring them, he fixed the doorman with a stare and said, “I was with the General and the Major earlier this evening. Perhaps they simply failed to make a note amidst the celebrations. Certainly you can make an exception, especially on a night like this.”

The doorman looked doubtful. “Perhaps I can phone Army Headquarters -”

“What is the holdup?” A booming voice interrupted from the queue. “And since when did you start admitting captains and civilians into the Curzon?” Contempt dripped from every word.

“Apologies, sir,” the doorman said, addressing the men behind them. “If you would kindly just wait a moment, then this will be all sorted out.” Turning back, he says to Sherlock and John, lips pursed with displeasure, “Gentlemen, if you are not members of the club, then you must be on this list, and as you are not, then I need permission from the General or the Major in order to permit you entrance.”

Not to be ignored, the man behind them said, “Perhaps you could let us through while you deal with them, Maxwell. We are wasting time that could be spent with a glass in hand.”

“It will do you no harm to wait; judging from the amount you have already had to drink this evening, surely your liver will thank you,” Sherlock retorted, turning to face the speaker, a tall, middle-aged Colonel with a greatly over-inflated sense of self-importance. If only he knew whom he was addressing, then he would not be so pompous, but everything would be ruined were the truth to come out, so Sherlock did his best to suppress his irritation.

The Colonel took two steps up so he was even with Sherlock and clasped his hands behind his back. He was standing so close that Sherlock could smell the alcohol and tobacco on him, underpinned by the tang of sweat. “Watch your tone, young man.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I was merely stating the truth.”

“You don’t know when to shut up, do you? Perhaps that’s why you’re not in uniform -- too much lip and not enough common sense to make it through basic training.” With each word, small flecks of spittle landed on Sherlock’s face, and combined with the severe halitosis, Sherlock felt increasing levels of disgust and anger throughout the Colonel’s rant. 

From below them, one of the men with the Colonel piped up. “Leave him be, sir. He’s just a kid.” 

“He’s a disrespectful little weirdo, that’s what he is.”

“I beg your pardon!” Sherlock exclaimed at the same time John growled, “Watch it.”

The Colonel drew up to his full height at that and swivelled his red face to turn his attention to John, who was standing on the step below. Racking his eyes over John’s frame, inspecting and mean, he snarled, “Forget something, Captain?”

Sherlock looked at John, wondering what he could have possibly forgotten. The two men were glaring at each other, John’s eyes steely. Slowly, John brought his heels together and raised his right arm in a salute, flicking his hand towards the Colonel and cocking his head in a show of defiance. 

Sherlock wanted to laugh - John was a marvel! - but he refrained and pulled his lips into a smirk instead. The Colonel was evidently not so pleased and Sherlock watched as he stepped down to tower over John.

“Let’s have that again, Captain. This time like you mean it.”

“No.”

“Whadja just say to me?”

“No, I have already saluted, Colonel. Besides I am not currently on duty, it is VE Day, and you’ve just insulted my friend.”

The Colonel’s face reddened further at John’s words. “I could have you written up, Captain.” 

“On what charge?”

“Failure to properly salute a superior officer, attempting to force entrance into an exclusive club, conduct unbecoming of a Captain of the British Army. Take your pick, Captain.”

Sherlock snorted. “‘Force entrance’? Are you inclined to exaggeration all of the time?”

“Why don’t you go on in, Colonel, and we’ll be on our way,” John said, his words polite but his tone scornful.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t want me to phone HQ then, sirs?” The doorman enquired, as though he had not been paying attention to the altercation before him.

Sherlock interrupted before either officer could get a word in. “No, that will be quite all right, Maxwell. As the Captain said, we shall just be on our way, but the Colonel is ever so eager to get inside, so perhaps you could assist him.”

With an elbow, Sherlock nudged John in an effort to get him away from the Colonel, with whom he was still engaged in a battle of wills. When the stubborn man did not budge, Sherlock leapt down the stairs in a swirl of coat, ignoring the gasps and murmurs from those in the queue, and grabbed John by the arm, all but dragging him along. “Have a splendid evening, gentleman!” he called over his shoulder with a laugh and started down the road.

“GET BACK HERE, CAPTAIN!”

Beside him, Sherlock felt John’s arm bumping his and glanced over at him, wondering if attempting to flee was a poor decision, one that might have consequences for John later, but John met his eye, and with a wild grin, whispered, “Run!”

And so he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song The World Will Sing Again can be heard here: https://youtu.be/Lrgk7CewVJs
> 
> Yobbo (or ‘yob’, which is literally just ‘boy’ backwards) is a derogatory British term that means a noisy, uncouth or aggressive young man, usually aimed at young working class men. It’s probably not something that John would normally say, but in this moment he was a bit irked that Sherlock left him by himself and jealous of the exuberant and physical interaction he had with the four soldiers. Basically, John is a trash can and wants Sherlock to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a narrow escape from the Curzon Club, more adventure awaits Sherlock and John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! Apologies for the long delay between chapters - real life has taken over and I've had neither the time nor the motivation to write, but I'm back at it now and I am determined to get this fic finished.
> 
> As always, I have to thank my wonderful betas @zigster-ao3, @88thparallel and @eternaljohnlock for their encouragement, patience and notes of inspiration. You're all amazing! 
> 
> Enjoy! xx

~~ Twelve-thirty in the morning~~

For the second time that night, John found himself running through the streets of London.

If he wasn’t so out of breath, with a niggling sense of concern over his conduct back at the Curzon Club, then he would have laughed at how this evening had panned out so far. He’d transformed from being a grouchy invalid to galavanting through the city with this madman by his side. His Army mates wouldn’t believe the change; he could scarcely believe it himself.

Current stitch in his abdomen and worries over mouthing off to a superior officer aside, John realised he was having fun. Actual, god’s-honest fun. It wasn’t something he experienced much recently and so it was, therefore, all the more startling to recognise its reappearance. And, if he examined the timing, it coincided with another unexpected arrival in his life in the form of one Sherlock Holmes, who was currently sprinting down the pavement ahead of him, long legs flying.

Tearing down Curzon Road away from the club, John saw the tall trees of Hyde Park looming ahead of them. Sherlock ducked into their shadows and turned left. “This way!” Sherlock called, and with an annoyed shake of his head, John noted that his companion lacked any noticeable trace of strain from running.

Once they were safely hidden in the shadows of the trees, Sherlock stopped and John gratefully came to rest beside him. His posture, doubled over with his hands on his knees, in contrast to Sherlock’s elegant frame leaning back against one of the tall trunks.

Between gasping breaths, John wheezed, “That was ridiculous.”

Sherlock’s face twisted into a pleased, mischievous smirk and he started to laugh, a sound so contagious, John couldn’t help but join. The pair of them dissolved into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. John’s high-pitched giggle was in concert with Sherlock’s surprisingly low rumbling laugh. John felt like he was back in grammar school with his childhood friends; this whole situation was absurd and yet so perfect at the same time. 

Eventually, they pulled themselves together. John straightened up, adjusting his uniform coat as he did so, and he caught Sherlock regarding him with an air of uncertainty. Clearly no one from the club followed them and John figured that they’d relocated far enough from Trafalgar Square to also avoid whoever was following Sherlock, but John wasn’t ready for their adventure to be at an end, so he cocked his head to the side and asked, “What now?” 

Sherlock’s shoulders lifted in an awkward shrug. “As you might have gathered, John, following the events of the evening so far, I cannot say I have much of a plan.”

“What, you didn’t intend on multiple escapes on foot through the streets of London?”

“Not as such.”

“That’d be some pretty poor planning if you had.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, we’re free of Colonel Pisspot, and the night is still fairly young, surely we can find some other trouble to get into?”

Sherlock’s mouth pulled into a small vee of a suppressed grin. “Yes, I do think that may be possible.”

“To a pub?” 

“Are there any good establishments nearby?”

John looked around at their location nearing the swish area of Knightsbridge, with all its enormous houses and expensive shops. Not John’s usual stomping ground, to be sure, but he figured there had to be some pub along Brompton Road. With Sherlock’s accent and John’s uniform, they might just be allowed to mingle with the upper echelons of society, for surely even they were out celebrating tonight, and anyway, Sherlock was actually their peer and could probably talk anyone into anything.

“Shall we walk and see what we find? There’s bound to be some overpriced local spot up ahead where hoity-toity people like you gather.”

Sherlock made a face. “I have changed my mind — that sounds horrible, John.”

John just chuckled and set off down the pavement westward. “Come on, posh boy. First round’s on me. Again.” 

Sherlock followed, muttering. John caught him repeating the words ‘posh boy’ and he grinned even more. Needling Sherlock about their obvious class difference was an incredibly diverting way to pass the time. 

As they walked, John replayed in his head something Sherlock had said earlier. Outside the Curzon Club, Sherlock had stated that they had been personally invited by General Erskine and Major Lestrade. While General Erskine was known to John by name in the way that all of the Generals were, Major Lestrade was not, and he wondered just what Sherlock’s connections to the two men were. 

He broke the silence to ask, “So, I’m assuming Major Lestrade is the officer chasing you, but do you actually know General Erskine?”

The question seemed to interrupt whatever train of thought had been rushing through Sherlock’s head, but with a brief laugh and shake of his curls, he replied, “Oh, no, not personally at least. Earlier this evening, I was simply made aware that he was the commanding officer of Major Lestrade, who is indeed the one who chased me into your taxi.”

“Okay, well then, care to explain your reasoning for using their names with the doorman if one was not known to you and the other was after you?”

Sherlock glanced away, his cheeks pinking up even in the dim light. “It was a gamble. I was hoping that by making reference to two high ranking officers, the doorman might be persuaded to let us in. However, my assumption that a connection to the General would be enough to grant us entry into the Curzon Club was, as you have just witnessed, woefully misguided.”

John snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Are you—” Sherlock paused, a brief look of confusion crossing his face, “—distressed about what happened with the Colonel?”

The niggle came back but only mildly and John pushed it aside. “I’m usually better at minding my tongue, but he was a right wanker and with how drunk he already was, he’ll probably forget the entire incident by morning. So to answer your question, no, I’m not terribly distressed.”

“Oh. Good.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder along the pavement. After the excitement of the last couple hours, they were now alone on the street, the air around them warm and humid, muffling the sounds of the city. John was glad of the reprieve; the sheer number of revellers flooding through London, seeking out a party to celebrate with loved ones or to find someone for the night, had been overwhelming. In contrast, Sherlock’s presence was equal parts comforting and exciting. 

“My night hasn’t turned out at all like I expected…” John trailed off, but he heard the end of the sentence in his head— ‘ _because of you_ ’— and a flush creeped up the back of his neck at the thought.

Sherlock didn’t reply immediately, but then said, “Nor mine.”

John tumbled those two words around in his head, trying to suss their meaning from Sherlock’s intonation. They had already established the fact that nothing that had happened was exactly planned, but John doubted that it would have felt like such an adventure had it been anyone else by his side. How was it possible to develop such a fast friendship with someone? Making friends had never come easily to John, but with Sherlock it felt different. He felt different. He was laughing and getting into trouble and running.

The thought caught John by surprise, and he remembered he hadn’t needed his cane for any of tonight’s hijinks. It was odd to feel sure of foot. This confidence in his body and himself was unfamiliar as of late but a relief. With his next few steps, John almost felt like he was dancing.

As they wandered along the edge of Hyde Park, John noted that the barracks of the mounted regiments were quickly approaching. If they wanted to find a pub for the night, they’d have to venture south into Knightsbridge proper. 

Echoing Sherlock’s words from earlier, John said, “this way” and turned left to cross the carriage path that bordered the park and headed towards a narrow alley that he assumed would connect them with the Knightsbridge high street. John was just acting on vague memory, and Sherlock didn’t appear to know this part of London too well either, but he met him stride for stride. 

As they neared the mouth of the alley, Sherlock exclaimed, “John!” His voice was tinged with excitement, and an odd undertone of panic.

“What?”

“A body!”

And with that, Sherlock pelted away from him only to kneel down by one of the dark buildings that surrounded them. It took a moment for John to register this new development, but then he snapped into action, quickly striding to where Sherlock was kneeling, and pushed him aside to better assess the young soldier sprawled on the ground, arms and legs thrown out at seemingly impossible angles. 

Sherlock leapt up and was gone from John’s side, but John focused on the man in front of him. Not dead, thankfully. Unconscious and breathing, and smelling strongly of alcohol. He could see the man’s chest was rising with shallow breaths, so John continued his primary assessment. Although he’d clearly fallen into his current position, he did not appear to have any broken bones or dislocated joints. 

John tapped the soldier on the cheek and leaned down closer to his ear. “Private, can you hear me? Come on, lad, wake up. Private!” The last was shouted directly into the young man’s ear, but there was still no response. Feeling gently along the man’s neck and then up around his head, John recognised the wet, sticky feeling before he’d even pulled his hands away, red with blood. _Shit_.

At the same moment, Sherlock exclaimed, “John! Blood!” He was bent over a short, knee-height railing that bordered a section of the path that lead back to Hyde Park. 

“Yes, well, he’s got quite a nasty gash on the back of his head, Sherlock. I’m not surprised there’s blood!” 

Below him, the private groaned and John quickly refocused his attention on the injured man, leaving Sherlock to prowl around the shrubbery and flowers on the other side of the railing. John rolled the soldier into the recovery position, lest he be sick and start to choke on his own vomit, and began taking his pulse.

With all the celebrating and imbibing going on tonight, it was only natural that there would be a few injuries, either by sheer accident or ill-advised displays of machismo resulting in fisticuffs. John had witnessed all sorts of stupid drunken behaviour, especially by young soldiers who couldn’t yet hold their liquor. 

The man’s pulse was slow and weak, which worried John. He seemed to be coming around a little bit, but with the gash on his head and all that alcohol in his bloodstream, things could take a turn for the worse rather quickly. Fishing his handkerchief out of the inside pocket of his jacket, John located the wound and applied pressure, hoping to staunch the flow of blood as much as possible while crouched on a dark, dirty bit of pavement. The man groaned again.

“Private? Can you hear me?” While John attempted to capture his patient’s attention, he heard footsteps approach and stop next to him.

“He is highly intoxicated, is he not?”

John glanced up at Sherlock, who stood over them, his eyes surveying the supine soldier. “Yes, very.”

“That explains the poor balance and coordination,” Sherlock muttered, with a slight roll of his eyes. “It appears that he struck the low railing, falling backwards over it and was unable to break his fall with his hands. There is quite a bit of blood where his head struck the ground, so I suspect he lost consciousness immediately. That does not explain how he ended up here, however.”

“Maybe he regained consciousness enough to stumble a few meters before falling again?”

“Is that likely, given his condition?”

John looked down at the soldier. His face was pale and covered with a sheen of sweat, and his wrist, where John still held it to track his pulse, was clammy. He looked like hell, really. “It seems unlikely, but I suppose it isn’t impossible.”

Sherlock appeared unimpressed by this answer and he walked away, returning to the site of the soldier’s fall. John watched him pace about, studying the ground with a slight frown. After a moment, Sherlock stood upright and turned back to him, an excited grin lighting up his face. “John! A second set of footprints!”

He knew he shouldn’t laugh, after all there was an injured man to be thinking about, but Sherlock’s undisguised glee over finding some footprints was simply. . . adorable. 

“So what’s your conclusion, detective?”

“There is no evidence of a scuffle or foul play, so I think it is safe to assume that he knew whoever was with him, a friend or member of his squadron. Perhaps this gentleman’s fall and subsequent loss of consciousness frightened his friend, undoubtedly highly intoxicated himself, and he fled, assuming the worst. Idiot.”

As if on cue, another young soldier hurdled around the corner from Hyde Park and he skidded to a stop at the sight of John and Sherlock. He looked panicked, shaking slightly and breathing hard. “Is he alive?”

“Did guilt bring you back?” Sherlock asked, judgment thick in his voice. 

John shook his head. “Sherlock, stop.” Addressing the young soldier, he said, “Your friend will be okay, Private, but he does need medical care.”

“I know!” the soldier burst out, before catching himself and promptly saluting. “I mean, I know, sir. That’s where I went - to fetch help from the barracks just there. I didn’t want to leave him, honest! I just wanted to help him!”

The combination of the man’s youth, drunkenness and concern seemed like they were going to tip him into a full panic, which John would very much like to avoid.

“What’s your name, Private?” he asked sharply, attempting to get him to focus and calm down.

“Meeks, sir.”

“All right, Meeks, I assume you managed to secure assistance and an ambulance is indeed coming?” Meeks nodded, eyes wide and looking slightly unsteady on his feet now that his adrenaline was receding. “Good. In that case, sit down there and tell us what happened. Sherlock, come here.”

“Me? Whatever for?”

John huffed out an annoyed breath. “Just come here. I need you to apply pressure to the man’s head wound.” 

Sherlock made a face, a small wrinkle appearing at the bridge of his nose.

“Now!”

At that, Sherlock approached and knelt gingerly near the man’s head, his hand replacing John’s over the wound. 

“More pressure,” he said, and noting the shift of Sherlock’s hand, gave him a nod of approval. “Meeks, let’s hear it.”

John paid very little attention to what Private Meeks was actually saying, focusing instead on continuing his secondary assessment in case there were other injuries of note. As it turned out, there were none, and Meeks’ story was much as Sherlock had predicted. The injured man, Private Sampson, was prone to becoming excitable when drunk, and in the midst of telling some tale or another, lost his balance and tumbled arse over teakettle over the railing. Sherlock seemed almost disappointed by the fact that it had happened much as he'd said, but it helped clarify John’s picture of the man’s fall and resulting injury.

As Meeks wrapped up his account of the accident, a sharp voice demanded from the mouth of the alley, “What’s going on here?”

John’s head snapped up out of habit and his eyes widened as he took in the sight of this new addition to the scene. At the entrance to the alley stood Major Lestrade, jaw tight and eyes sharp. A note of worry ran down John’s spine at the sight of him, but Sherlock’s mysterious quarrel with this man wasn’t his chief concern at the moment.

“Head contusion, sir!” John barked out, hand returning to Sampson’s wrist to take his pulse again - still weak but steady. “Stable condition at the moment. Ambulance en route.” 

The Major nodded and turned to Sherlock. “Are you alright, Your—”

“Major Lestrade, I am perfectly fine!” Sherlock yelped, his voice higher than usual, which made John frown and cut his eyes to his friend. He looked like a spooked horse, ready to bolt at the slightest sound or movement. John nudged him aside to keep consistent pressure on the wound himself.

Sherlock rose, and striding over to where Major Lestrade stood, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from John and the two young soldiers. John was surprised to see Sherlock put his hands on an officer of the Major’s rank, and to see the Major allow himself to be led away. John watched them, eyes narrowed, ready to hop up and intervene should whatever it was going on between them escalate. 

Over the next five minutes, John divided his attention between keeping an eye on the unconscious soldier on the ground before him and anxiously watching as Sherlock and Major Lestrade engaged in a battle of words and a lot of wild gesturing on Sherlock’s part. They were too far away for John to hear what was being said, but Sherlock kept glancing over his shoulder at John, which did nothing to settle the knot of anxiety in his stomach. Lestrade frowned as though deeply unimpressed by whatever Sherlock was saying, and he shook his head. Apparently, Sherlock’s argument was not as persuasive as he’d hoped.

Sherlock and the Major were still talking when the ambulance arrived, a small off-white vehicle branded with a red cross. John was quite happy to pass care of the unfortunate Private Sampson off to the rather harried medics, who, undoubtedly, had had a busy night. After a few cursory questions directed at John, they lifted the injured man into the vehicle and gestured to Meeks to get in as well. 

“Thank you, sir,” Meeks said, before opening one of the rear doors and climbing in alongside his friend.

As the ambulance drove away, John’s attention returned to Sherlock and Major Lestrade. Their conversation seemed less intense than it had a few moments ago, and so, with only a slight hesitation, John made his way over to join them.

Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly when John reached them, his eyes skittering nervously between him and the Major. He looked very young in that moment, which only served to double John’s worry, his senses became more focused in anticipation. 

He took a step closer to Sherlock’s side and asked, voice flat, “What’s going on?”

“I have come to collect Sherlock, Captain, but he is flatly refusing to join me, especially, it seems, without you. Maybe you can convince him.” The way he said this, it sounded less like a suggestion and more of an order.

John glanced at Sherlock and opened his mouth to reply that he had no power to force Sherlock to go anywhere against his will, but Sherlock beat him to it.

“No. This is entirely unacceptable, Major.”

“I have a duty, Si—Sherlock.”

“Not to me.”

Lestrade sighed. “To your father. Yes, I am aware, but that doesn’t negate the fact that I am to escort you tonight. Now, in fact.”

John thought this seemed rather over-the-top considering the occasion. When all of Britain was celebrating, why was it necessary for Sherlock to be chaperoned home right now? “What’s the urgency?” John asked.

“Exactly. Thank you, John. There is no urgency whatsoever.” He turned back to the Major and said, “I shall meet you and Mycroft at an agreed rendezvous point, is that not what you say in the Army? John can escort me there, and he is a man of his word.”

Compliment aside, John was caught on this new name. “Who’s Mycroft?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “My obnoxious brother.” 

This caused John to snort out a laugh. Of course there were bloody two of them. 

Major Lestrade was not so easily distracted. “No, I’m sorry, Sherlock. We must return to the Ritz immediately.”

The Ritz? Jesus Christ, he really was a posh git. Regardless of the swanky destination, Sherlock was clearly loath to go with the Major, so John decided to join the fight of persuasion. “Is that where you were just headed, Major, the Ritz? Seems a bit out of the way to end up here.”

“No, Captain. Since young Sherlock, here, decided to do a runner, I have spent the majority of the evening tracking him, and incidentally you, across London. Now that I’ve located him, however, that is my destination. And yours.” He stated, eyeballing Sherlock, who glared right back at him. “Mycroft is waiting for us there.”

“I am not going anywhere with you.” 

“Sherlock, we’ve been through this. You are due back home immediately.”

Sherlock groaned. “I do hate repeating myself, but as I stated before, you are not my babysitter, Major.”

“In a way, I am.” 

After watching them go back and forth, John burst out with “Chelsea Barracks!” 

Two pairs of confused eyes turned towards him. “What?” Major Lestrade asked, while Sherlock went with a more refined “Sorry?”

Put on the spot, John hesitated and then said, “Err. . . Is that where you are stationed, Major?” 

“Indeed. What is your point, Captain?”

John cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a party there tonight, isn’t there?” 

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

“How about Sherlock and I go there now, while you collect his brother?”

He sensed rather than saw Sherlock grin beside him. “Perfect! Lestrade, listen to the good Captain. We have a new plan.”

“No, we most certainly do not.” Lestrade began, but it seemed Sherlock had grown tired of this argument and he drew himself up to his full height and his entire demeanour changed, suddenly fierce and commanding. 

“Major Lestrade, I will not take any orders from you -- I am not under your command. You either accept this arrangement and meet John and I at Chelsea Barracks, or I shall abscond from here and disappear amongst the shadows of Hyde Park. We both know I can outrun you, and I would not advise forcing me to do so for a second time tonight.” 

John was impressed, and he noticed a faint flush across Lestrade’s face following Sherlock’s ultimatum. 

“Fine,” Lestrade gritted out with a glare aimed at Sherlock, before he turned his attention to John. “I may not be able to give Sherlock orders, but I can command you, Captain. You will deliver Sherlock to the barracks as quickly as possible. Is that understood?”

“No, our arrival will be on our terms.” Sherlock said, pulling out his pocket watch. “We shall be there by two o’clock and no earlier. You cannot return to the Ritz and travel to the barracks before then anyway. If that is all, John and I will be on our way.”

With that, Sherlock turned in a swirl of coat and began striding down the alleyway, leaving John behind with Major Lestrade. With a nod and a muttered “Major” in salutation, John made to follow, but Lestrade grabbed his arm.

With a resigned sigh, he said, “You will see that no harm comes to him, Captain.”

“Of course, Major.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John set out for Chelsea Barracks in order to meet up with Lestrade and Mycroft, but what will they get up to en route?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter and I'm so excited to share it with you all now! Fingers crossed that you enjoy it as well. 
> 
> Thanks to my beautiful betas: @zigster-ao3, @88thparallel and @eternaljohnlock - you are all amazing! xx

~~one o’clock in the morning~~

Sherlock’s head was a whirlwind of irritation and panic, neither of which he would have admitted to if asked. Seeing as he was alone, at least for the moment, having abandoned John to finish the conversation with Lestrade, he took a pause to address them directly. 

The night had been going so well. Together, he and John were on a series of adventures, including a bit of a mystery with the injured soldier (the memory of John calling Sherlock ‘detective’ gave Sherlock a flash of pride), although that had been disappointingly easy to solve. Now, however, their evening was interrupted by the unwanted reappearance of Major Lestrade, who, up to this point, had refrained from revealing Sherlock’s identity except for a few close calls. Lestrade had proven willing to uphold the ruse, but Sherlock still feared a slip up from which he could not recover, particularly when Mycroft reappeared. 

If that were to happen, it would surely be the end. As was typical of people meeting a member of the royal family, John would treat him differently if he knew that Sherlock was, in fact, Prince William. And, as he thought about it, John would most likely consider it a bit not good if he knew Sherlock had lied to him about his identity throughout the duration of their acquaintance. 

In Sherlock’s view, he stood between Scylla and Charybdis. John could not find out or everything would be ruined.

Behind him, Sherlock heard John’s uneven footsteps echoing down the alley, and he took a deep breath to calm his racing heart before turning to face John. 

“All right?” John asked before Sherlock even had a chance to formulate a greeting.

He nodded. “Fine.”

John came to a halt in front of him, but instead of holding himself with the soldierly precision he had demonstrated with the Major, John now fidgeted uncomfortably. Sherlock studied him; his hands were balled into fists, thumbs running repetitively over the knuckle of his first finger, and he was looking off into the distance over Sherlock’s right shoulder. 

With a sniff and what appeared to be some internal struggle, John forced himself to relax and look at Sherlock again, his eyes wide. “You are under no obligation to tell me why the Major is duty bound to keep you on a short lead, but I hope you know you could tell me, if you wanted. And either way, I will help you. You know that, right? Lestrade may outrank me, but you are my friend.” And with that, John let out a breath, like this speech had taken considerable energy to execute. 

_Friend_. Had he ever had a friend before? Besides Mycroft and various courtiers who sought greater position with the royal family, Sherlock could not think of one, at least not since childhood when the son of one of the palace gardeners had befriended him, but even that had not lasted. Mummy deemed it inappropriate for him to be spending time with Victor and had put a stop to it, leaving Sherlock on his own once more. The thought of having John's friendship made him feel warm, but a wave of guilt quickly eclipsed this feeling. Lying to John was detestable but necessary. He wished they could truly be friends, without this big secret laying between them. It seemed that Sherlock would have to settle for having this one night only. While he wished it did not have to end, if that all he was to have of John’s friendship, then he would consider himself lucky. 

“Thank you, John.”

John nodded. 

Sherlock did not know what else to say. It was rare that he was at a loss for words, but he was too terrified that anything he might say would tip them over the balance. 

After a moment, during which silence reigned and Sherlock avoided John’s eye, John finally said, “To Chelsea, then?”

To Sherlock, it seemed like the death march towards the end of the evening, but he pulled himself up and said, “To Chelsea.”

Together, they turned south and headed for Sloane Street, which would take them to the heart of Chelsea. It appeared that John was familiar with Chelsea Barracks, so Sherlock trusted that he would lead them there without issue.

“Why two o’clock?” John asked suddenly. “It won’t take more than twenty minutes to get to the barracks.”

The question made Sherlock squirm and he could feel his cheeks beginning to flush. “What I said was accurate, it will take some time for Lestrade to collect my obnoxious brother from the Ritz and arrive at Chelsea Barracks to meet us.”

John did not seem wholly satisfied with that answer, but he replied with “true” nonetheless.

Perhaps John deserved to hear the truth, no matter how much the idea of admitting it to him filled Sherlock with fear. He sucked in a fortifying breath and said, voice strained, “I did not wish to return quite yet.”

After a conflicted pause, Sherlock glanced over at John and was met with a surprised smile. “Me neither.”

The words were gentle and rounded, filling all the empty spaces in Sherlock’s mind. 

“Although, it seems like you’re determined to make me as tired as possible when I’m on parade tomorrow. I hadn’t planned on such a late night!” John said, with a chuckle. 

The comment gave Sherlock pause. While he had anticipated an evening of eluding Mycroft and Lestrade and traipsing all over London, he had not fully considered that John might have other obligations. John had most definitely been headed somewhere when they met in the taxi, possibly with plans of his own for celebrating VE Day. Now that he thought about it, perhaps the idea that John would just follow where he led was a touch presumptuous. Sherlock had noticed that John wore no wedding band, but that did not mean he did not have a. . . lover waiting for him. Sherlock felt his stomach clench at the very idea.

He decided to give voice to these questions. “Where were you headed earlier? In the taxicab, I mean. Were you expected somewhere, by a girlfriend, perhaps?” He knew he was being rather obvious with the question, but he had to know.

To his relief, John snorted. “Girlfriend? No, not with my luck. Who’d take an interest in me, anyhow, an invalid who walks like an old man?” John gave a small, self-deprecating laugh and then continued, “I was on my way to my sister’s flat. To escape, really.”

“Escape? From what?” 

“The celebrations.” He paused and Sherlock glanced over at him, trying to see what his face was doing so as to better read this situation. “It sounds mad, I know. I just couldn’t bear to be amongst it all. I’m glad to see the war finished and, I know I bloody well fought in it, but I felt like we had lost too much, I think. So instead of moping about on the Mall and souring the festivities for my mates, I decided to set out for my sister’s place instead.”

Sherlock stopped short. “You were at the Palace?” 

“Yeah, for a bit. Why?”

Sherlock scrambled for a justification for his question. “Well, from what I know of you, which admittedly is not much, it seemed an unlikely destination for you, especially if you wanted to escape the celebrations.”

“Fair point. My mates dragged me out. I didn’t last long, though.”

John had been out there, hidden in the sea of people, just beyond the walls and gates of his home, while Sherlock was inside preparing to go out. Given the number of people celebrating tonight, the odds of their paths crossing was infinitesimally small. If Sherlock had escaped the Ritz earlier or later, if John had taken a different taxi or not gotten one at all, then they would not have met. That John could exist in the world without Sherlock ever knowing him was unfathomable. 

“I feel like I owe you an apology, John. It seems that I, quite without thought, caused you to alter your plans for the evening. I have made many assumptions, one of which was that you would, of course, want to accompany me on what has proven to be a comedy of errors.”

“Sherlock, stop. I’m happy to be here. Honestly, I’ve had more fun tonight than I have in a long time.”

“Really?” He could not seem to shake this bubble of worry and self-doubt.

John bumped him with his shoulder. “Yes, really. In fact, I feel like I should be thanking you for pulling me out of the gloom.”

“And I you, for honouring me with your company.”

John grinned. “Sitting alone at my sister’s really doesn’t compare.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and he allowed it to unfurl completely. “No, neither does spending the evening with my brother at the Ritz.”

They had stopped walking, and they now stood in the shadows of the large houses that surrounded them on Sloane Street. Sherlock could not hear anything beyond the soft exhalations of John’s breathing. It seemed like his entire being was focused on the man in front of him. Every nerve frozen in anticipation. Of what, he was not quite certain. 

John was looking at him intently, jaw tight. Sherlock wished to reach out a finger and smooth out the tension that was writ across John’s face; he could almost imagine the feel of John’s skin under his fingertips in his mind. Sherlock waited, breathless, unable to tease out the exact meaning of John’s curious expression. 

Finally, after a small eternity, John whispered his name, and Sherlock _knew_. Heart beating rapidly in his chest, he nodded, almost imperceptibly, but John’s eyes widened and he licked his lips. Sherlock watched the path of his tongue with fascination.

The urge to touch returned, and Sherlock lifted a hand out to John, but John shook his head. “Not here.” Sherlock dropped his hand as if scalded, and normal sound returning, noticed the other people on the surrounding pavement as though for the first time. John’s expression softened. “Come on.”

Sloane Street was a main thoroughfare through Knightsbridge, but beyond this busy road was a warren of narrow, twisted streets where one could easily get lost. John set off into the shadows, and Sherlock trailed behind him, blood pumping hot in his veins. 

As they slipped into the darkness within a narrow alcove behind one of the grand houses, Sherlock’s nerves ratcheted up, his palms sweating and his mouth going dry. The space was just wide enough for them to slip into sideways, chests nearly pressed together. Sherlock was reminded of a moment earlier in the evening when they had found themselves in a similar position, and if someone had asked him then, he would never had he imagined that his night would have taken this turn. But here he was, full of nervous anticipation as the most interesting man he had ever met stood mere centimeters from him, eyes dark and beguiling as they gazed at each other in the dim light. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered again.

Sherlock shuddered, utterly failing to suppress it, and closed his eyes. His body felt as though it was short-circuiting. 

He heard John release a small huff of laughter. “You are lovely,” he said, his voice warm, running like honey over Sherlock’s skin. Daring to open his eyes again, he looked down at John and discovered that the intensity from earlier had melted away and John was watching him patiently with a lopsided smile. 

“Hi,” John said softly, “you okay?”

Sherlock nodded, still lacking breath to form words. He forced himself to inhale deeply and when he released it, he once again raised his hand and set it gently against the badges and medals that adorned John’s jacket, right above his heart. Although the material was too thick to feel his heartbeat, Sherlock drew comfort from the idea that perhaps John’s heart was beating as fast as his own. 

John’s left hand came up to cover Sherlock’s where it rested on his chest, while his right moved slowly to Sherlock’s cheek, as though to give Sherlock time to anticipate or scorn his touch. When John’s fingers made contact with his skin, Sherlock drew a sharp breath and pushed his head more firmly into John’s hand. 

John did not appear to be in a hurry. Instead, he gently traced his fingertips along Sherlock’s cheekbones, across his ear and eventually tangled them in his curls at the nape of his neck, drawing Sherlock’s head down in the process. John was so close now, their breath mingling in the air between them. Sherlock felt dizzy, but he sensed that John, ever the gentleman, was waiting for him to take the next step, not wanting to push Sherlock beyond where he was comfortable. 

Could he do this? Although he knew in theory that the last few minutes had been leading to this moment, he had no practical experience to fall back on. If he was bold enough to jump, Sherlock was about to kiss someone for the first time in all his nineteen years, and that someone was Captain John Watson. He could do this.

Raising his left hand so that both his palms were resting on John’s chest, Sherlock pressed forward, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically because his lips bumped awkwardly against John’s. He felt John chuckle against his lips and tighten the hold he had on Sherlock’s curls, gently adjusting the angle of his head so that their mouths aligned better. John’s mouth was soft and searching. Never before had Sherlock considered how wonderful a kiss might feel and he sighed with pleasure at the new sensation. 

Not knowing what to do to further the kiss, Sherlock waited for a cue from John, who, after a while, began to move his mouth, sucking on Sherlock’s lower lip. It felt wonderful, and Sherlock tried to imitate the action on John’s top lip. John gave an approving moan, which bolstered Sherlock’s confidence. He wanted to be closer, he wanted more, needed to feel John against him, so Sherlock slid his hands over John’s shoulders and reeled him into his embrace. In response, John shifted his own arms so they were wrapped around Sherlock’s back, giving Sherlock the glorious feeling of being surrounded by this surprising man.

John's tongue teased against Sherlock's lips, and he parted them in eager invitation. When he felt John's hot tongue connect with his own, his knees practically gave out and he found himself holding on tighter to John for support.

Any coherent thought was wiped from his brain and Sherlock’s mind was deliciously blank except for the feeling of John’s mouth on his and his body pressed tightly against him. It was like existing in that murky place between sleep and awake. Sherlock was unsure of how much time had passed - five minutes or five hours - but eventually he pulled away in an effort to avoid, quite literal, lightheadedness from lack of oxygen.

He panted out a few breaths and looked at John, who seemed strangely out of focus, but he noticed that John’s lips were red and he had a starry-eyed look about him too. 

“Was that acceptable?”

John grinned up at him. “ _That_ was bloody marvelous!”

John’s enthusiastic response made Sherlock feel overwhelmed, curling shyly into his shoulder, needing a moment to sort through all the thoughts and new feelings flying through his mind. Intimacy had never appealed to Sherlock - the majority of people he encountered were exceedingly dull, chronically self-serving, or currying favour with his family, and he preferred to stay as far from them as possible. John was different. (A small voice in Sherlock’s head reminded him that John did not know his true identity, but he shoved it aside.) John _was_ different, and it was a curious sensation to be comfortable within someone’s embrace. Vulnerable, that was the word for what Sherlock was feeling. The very idea of vulnerability went against Sherlock’s core being, but with John he craved it. 

While he held him, John pressed light kisses into his hair, murmuring softly but Sherlock could not discern the individual words. Lifting his head, he stared into John’s eyes and asked, “May I kiss you again?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

The next time they surfaced, John queried the hour, murmuring gently against Sherlock’s mouth. As tempted as he was to ignore their appointed meeting time at the barracks, Sherlock fished out his pocket watch. It was just after half past one and John determined that they best “head out”, so they pulled themselves together and, with one final, brief kiss, re-emerged from the shadows out onto Sloane Street.

Chelsea Barracks, when they finally reached it at quarter to two, was still lit up brightly, despite the hour; clearly the party was still in full swing. At the gate, two young sergeants on duty, monitoring the crowd entering and exiting the barracks. Along with the others enthusiastically queuing up to enter the barracks, there was an occasional couple exiting, disappearing off into the night with furtive whispers, expectant looks, and laughter. The guards saluted John as they made their approach, and Sherlock stuck close to his elbow, but the sergeants did not question the presence of the civilian in John’s company. 

As they passed through the main door of the barracks, Sherlock could hear music off to his right. A live band was playing an uptempo Bing Crosby song and one of the trumpets was sorely out of tune. Sherlock sighed in disgust. Surely any musician worth a damn would tune his instrument before a performance.

While there were a few other officers in attendance, the majority of soldiers appeared to be rather low ranking and they made way for John as he passed. Sherlock was accustomed to people moving out his way at events, so it was a novel experience to watch John receive the same treatment as the soldiers stepped aside for their superior officer. Sherlock did not attempt to hide the smug grin that he was certain was on his face.

After a short corridor, John led them into a large hall packed with people. At one end was a bar and at the other was a low stage, on which the band was arranged. 

John caught his eye and nodded towards the bar. “Do you want a drink?”

After the beer and whisky earlier in the night, Sherlock had had enough alcohol, so he shook his head, loath to shout over the music and loud chatter that filled up the room. Instead, he diverted them along the floor, closer to the band, and once they had passed the swarm of people near the bar, Sherlock noticed that there was enough room for a dancefloor. Various couples had paired off and were dancing to a slow jazz number. The unlucky men, who greatly outnumbered women at this party, were lined up along the wall, watching.

Eventually, they found a clear table and Sherlock quickly claimed one of the chairs before it was taken. John settled next to him, close enough that their elbows bumped together. Sherlock pressed his arm into John’s and John pressed back in response, and Sherlock had to smother a grin at the touch. It was innocent enough, easily passed off as a result of crowded space, but after their kiss, it felt downright illicit. However, he knew no one would notice, even if they had not been so wrapped up in their own revelry to pay attention to them.

As the clock ticked closer to two in the morning, Sherlock felt a slight desperation to remain as close to John as possible. Soon, his horrid brother and Major Lestrade would be here, and various scenarios floated through his mind for how that would unfold. Mycroft’s arrival filled him with anxiety, and he would, undoubtedly, need to make a swift exit to avoid anyone recognising the royal brothers.

There was a brief moment of silence as the band finished one piece before transitioning into a rousing swing number, which was unfamiliar to Sherlock but was met by a cheer from the crowd. Fascinated, he watched as couples paired up and started what looked like a violent series of kicks and throws. However, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time so Sherlock supposed the acrobatic aspects of the dance were part of the fun.

Leaning over to John, Sherlock asked, “What are they doing?”

“Dancing?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, John, I can see that they are dancing, I have not lost my mental acuity in the last twenty minutes.” Turning his head, lips brushing against John’s ear, he whispered, “Although it was a near thing when you kissed me.”

Sherlock was pleased to note the flush that crept up John’s neck at his comment. John coughed into his fist and refused to look at Sherlock for a moment. Finally, he turned and said, continuing their previous conversation, “It’s the Lindy Hop, I think. I’ve always been a shite dancer though so I can’t be sure.”

That prompted an image of John dancing to flicker through Sherlock’s head. He very much doubted that John was terrible; after all, he had demonstrated excellent fitness, coordination and spatial awareness throughout their exploits thus far (limp and cane aside), so perhaps it was a lack of experience and confidence rather than a lack of skill that made John doubt himself.

“You can dance, though, can’t you? You look like a dancer, all tall and lean and graceful. Besides, posh boys like you probably learn to waltz as soon as you can walk.”

At John’s teasing compliments, it was now Sherlock’s turn to blush, but he attempted to divert attention with a smirk. “Mmm, indeed. Waltz, foxtrot, quickstep and an odd few traditional dances as well.” 

John shook his head. “Of course you can.”

“Shall we attempt to learn the Lindy Hop?”

“What, no!”

Rising from his chair, Sherlock looked down, a challenge in his eye. “Come on, John. Are you going to lose your nerve now?”

John groaned and unenthusiastically rolled himself out of his chair. “Fine. But this will be embarrassing, just so you know.”

“It appears to be mostly kicking and flailing, so I doubt you could go too far wrong.”

John still looked uncertain, however; his eyes darted around, watching the dancers next to them. The Lindy Hop was clearly a partner dance, which added to the awkwardness of the moment. Sherlock, no matter how much he wanted to, could not dance with John, that much was clear. They would need to find female partners to make this dance lesson possible. 

Sherlock scanned the crowd and it appeared that all women in their vicinity had already been claimed, but he spied two brunette women making their way over from the bar. Before anyone else could swoop in, Sherlock slipped past John with a muttered “wait here” and approached the women, one taller in a green dress with a sleek updo and the other in yellow with her hair curling over her shoulders.

“Ladies, good evening,” he said with a slight bow for effect, “As I am sure you noticed, we are woefully short of partners this evening, so perhaps you would do us the honour of joining my friend and me in a dance?” Sherlock gestured to John behind him, returning he gaze to the women and plastering on a smile he hoped read charming but sincere. 

The one in the green dress looked him up and down before turning to her friend and raising an eyebrow. Her friend smiled and nodded shyly, which Sherlock counted as a success.

“Oh, how boorish of me, please let me introduce ourselves. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend Captain John Watson.”

John seemed to have caught up with the plan and he chimed in, with a wink, “Ladies, a pleasure.” Yellow Dress giggled and blushed at John’s attention and Sherlock scowled at her. He hated John flirting with anyone else but him. 

Reminding himself that it was all an act, he schooled his face back into his fake smile and turned to the woman in the green dress. “And you are?”

“Irene,” she replied, voice sultry and eyes sparkling as she reached out a hand to Sherlock. Internally, Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he gamely took her hand and squeezed her fingers in greeting.

Beside him, John said, “What’s your name then?”

“Molly,” the other woman squeaked. 

Sherlock watched as John gave her a comforting smile and offered her his arm. “I’m hoping you know how to do this dance because otherwise we’re in trouble,” he said, turning to walk Molly out onto the dancefloor.

As Sherlock watched John walk away, he found that dancing suddenly lost its appeal, but he turned his attention back to Irene, saying, “Shall we?”

“Lead the way, handsome.”

He held his arms up in an open hold and Irene slipped into them, her fingers coyly dancing up his shoulder as she did so. Together they began to move. Irene was clearly a decent dancer and he was able to pick up some basic steps by just watching those around them. He had lost sight of John, however, so he spun Irene away from him in an effort to turn them so that he could see the rest of the dancefloor. 

Ten feet away, John and Molly were engaged in what looked like a dual effort not to step on each other’s toes. The dancing was atrocious, lacking any finesse, but John was laughing, and the look of unadulterated joy made Sherlock grin as well. John was exceedingly adorable. 

Then Irene was back in his arms and, despite her exaggerated attempts to seduce him with her heated looks and wandering hands, Sherlock found himself enjoying their dance. He had always enjoyed dancing, but he had never been allowed to participate in something as free and wild as the Lindy Hop. Deciding to revel in the opportunity, he allowed himself to be swept up in the dance, while keeping half an eye on John as he struggled through with Molly.

In the space between the crowd of dancers around him, amidst swishing skirts and flying arms, Sherlock suddenly had a clear view across the hall, as though the curtains had been pulled back across a stage, allowing him to see a familiar officer speaking with two other soldiers in red hats and pointing in their direction.

Heart in his throat, he abruptly dropped Irene’s hands and spun to locate John behind him on the dancefloor.

“John!” he shouted, but the other man was too far away and the music from the band too loud. 

Beside him, Irene grabbed his arm and asked “What is it?” 

Sherlock shook her off and glanced over his shoulder, only to discover that the Colonel and his entourage were moving towards them around the edge of the dancefloor, pushing revellers aside in their haste. He had to reach John first.

Turning back to where he had last seen his friend, Sherlock was dismayed to discover that John and Molly had been swept farther away, into a more direct path of the Colonel. Sherlock scrambled towards him, knocking into dancers on both sides and stumbling over an outstretched leg. 

In slow motion, he watched as the red hats reached John first, grabbing his arms roughly and jerking him away from Molly.

John’s face was a caricature of surprise and his mouth opened to form an exclamation. From afar, Sherlock heard John’s voice clearly in his head saying, “What?” He struggled against their grip for a moment before subsiding and glaring between them. By the time Sherlock reached his side, he was red with anger. “What is the meaning of this?” John demanded, adopting the voice that Sherlock had come to think of as his ‘Captain Watson’ voice.

“Let him go!” Sherlock said, pulling at one of the soldiers arms, attempting to remove his hands from John’s person. The soldier’s grip was momentarily dislodged, but his other hand clamped down firmly around John’s bicep, and he grappled with Sherlock for a few seconds before twisting his right arm and thrusting it upwards. When it connected with his nose, Sherlock stepped backwards, off-balance and stunned. A burst of pain erupted through his face and he touched his nose gingerly, his fingers coming away covered in blood.

It was then that the Colonel approached, and said, “We meet again, Captain.” 

With his hand clasped over his nose, Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Never before had he wanted to strike someone so badly as he did the Colonel in that moment. John, however, looked as though his anger had drained away, replaced with annoyance and he stood taller, proud and unapologetic.

“For your decorum earlier this evening, I have commanded that you be taken into custody and your infractions will be dealt with by the Military Police. You are a -”

The Colonel got no further because Sherlock had heard enough. He bodily inserted himself into the mix and said, loudly, “I demand you release him at once.”

John, the Colonel, the two members of the Military Police and all those on the dancefloor in their immediate vicinity, including Molly and Irene, turned to look at him. The Colonel looked him up and down with disgust, but one of the soldiers holding John asked, voice snide, “and who are you?”

With his next words, Sherlock knew everything would change, but he could see no other way out. He could not allow them to take John - all of tonight’s events had occurred because of Sherlock and his stubborn determination to be released from his royal duties; therefore, it was imperative that John was not punished. 

He knew he must look like a brigand, blood dripping onto his jacket, but Sherlock drew himself up and focused on the soldier who asked the question, determined not to look at John as he spoke. If he did, he was not certain he would be able to get the necessary words out. Time seemed to draw out, but finally, he said:

“I am Prince William.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a couple questions about where this fic is headed, and I want to clarify now that I will be following the basic plot of the film A Royal Night Out and I am writing this with the views of homosexuality of the period in mind. Unfortunately, that means that there will be no gay prince/pauper royal wedding in this fic, although that would have been the ultimate fluffy ending. That being said, the ending of this fic will not be heartbreaking - I hope to end on a bittersweet but optimistic note. Stick with me, please!
> 
> And if you haven't seen A Royal Night Out, please do! It's utterly charming. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's true identity has been revealed - how will John handle the news?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are reading this fic as new chapters are posted, please go back and re-read the end of chapter five before continuing. I've made a small change that impacts on the action of this chapter - nothing huge, but everything makes a bit more sense with the reworked scene in chapter five. (Oh, the joys of writing a WIP...) Anway, start from the point where John is apprehended by the redhats and you should be golden.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading along - I hope this fic has brought you as much joy as it has me. Only one more chapter to go! Can you believe?!
> 
> And I'm like a broken record at this point, but thank you so much to my amazing betas - @zigster-ao3, @eternaljohnlock and @88thparallel. Your support, insight and encouragement have really helped me through this fic. Love you!

~~Two o’clock in the morning~~

“We meet again, Captain.”

The fingers around his arms tightened as the Colonel spoke. John desperately wanted to shake them off, but he wasn't going to allow the pathetic man in front of him see his anger. What were the fucking odds that they'd run into him again tonight? Lifting his chin, he glared at the Colonel and waited. 

The man was still clearly intoxicated, cheeks red and eyes bleary, but he had enough wherewithal to identify John and explain the situation to the redhats. Even so, John was near enough to sober that he was fairly sure he could talk himself out of any serious trouble with the members of the Military Police. Sure, he'd been a bit mouthy, but he'd not insulted or attacked the idiot.

In his peripheral vision, he saw that Sherlock had been hurt. Somehow in the chaos, he’d earned himself a bloody nose. The sight of blood on Sherlock’s face made his own run hot once more. 

In front of him, the Colonel was ranting about John's earlier conduct, spittle flying out of his mouth as he spoke. While John usually deferred to those who outranked him without question, something about this officer made his hackles rise. Despite the desire to tell him off, he opted to keep silent until the Colonel finished his tirade, focusing on not letting the irritation show on his face. 

The Colonel was interrupted mid-sentence.

“I demand you release him at once!” 

John groaned. Oh, Jesus, Sherlock really didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. 

He attempted to catch Sherlock's eye and wave him off, but the stubborn git was intent on the Colonel. Sherlock stood tall, posture perfect, and his entire demeanor rang with authority; John nearly gasped at the physical change to his friend. 

“And who are you?” The redhat to his left asked, unimpressed with being challenged by a civilian.

_He's just a bloody kid_ , John wanted to say, _leave him alone!_

But Sherlock did not appear remotely intimidated. Instead he seemed to grow more sure, more...powerful. It was a strange juxtaposition, comparing this Sherlock to the one who’d trembled in his arms after they’d kissed. (The kiss itself was too big, too wonderful and too scary to fully inspect right now. John packed it away in his mind.) 

He wanted to defend Sherlock somehow, but there wasn't much he could do, restrained as he was. John opened his mouth, intending to call out to his friend, when Sherlock spoke again, loud and commanding.

“I am Prince William.”

Around him there was a collective intake of breath, followed by a resounding silence. Time seemed suspended as all eyes turned to observe the commotion on the dancefloor. There were a few whispers, hissed low and urgent amongst the crowd. 

John himself was frozen. He couldn't have heard that right, and if he had, then surely Sherlock was attempting the biggest con of the night, because there was no way Sherlock was a member of the royal family. Posh git, yes, but not a bloody prince.

John watched in fascinated horror as people began to genuflect, one after another, either saluting, bowing or curtseying in Sherlock's direction. The Colonel's expression showed a combination of outrage and shock, and over his shoulder, Molly and Irene were clutching at each other’s arms, while whispering furiously. He kept waiting for someone to contradict Sherlock, to call him out for the bold-faced lie, but the longer he surveyed the silent room, the clearer it became that wasn't going to happen.

Gathering all his courage, John looked over at Sherlock and was met by a piercing gaze. They stared at each other for a second, John reading a flurry of emotion in Sherlock’s eyes before the other man schooled his expression and turned to the redhats, ignoring the Colonel, red-faced and fuming, completely.

“Let go of my friend, please.”

His captors faltered. “Your friend, Your Majesty?”

Sherlock glanced at John and said, voice softer, “Yes, I would like to think he is still my friend.”

_Friend._ The word caused John to jerk back in surprise. Twenty minutes ago, he had been completely smitten with the man he knew as “Sherlock” and would not have hesitated to call him his friend. Now, however, John could feel the warm prickles of rage creeping up his spine. Bits and pieces of their conversation over the night began to flicker through his head and it all started to slot together. 

Major Lestrade was obviously charged with keeping an eye on the wild prince, and had bungled the job spectacularly. Although knowing Sher--Prince William (he cringed at the correction) as he did, he was not surprised at Lestrade’s trouble with keeping him in line. John had guessed Sherlock was from some kind of noble family, and he’d also said he was “closer in rank to the King” than John and the plebs in the pub, but in reality, he was third in line for the throne! Fucking hell.

“William!” A stern voice interrupted John’s internal rant. 

With the rest of the crowd, John turned and saw a man walking quickly through the hall, tailed by Major Lestrade. And this, thought John, must be “Mycroft,” or Prince bloody Henry. He arrived at Sherlock’s side and Major Lestrade came to a stop at his opposite shoulder, fishing in his pocket and offering a handkerchief to Sherlock.

John found himself unceremoniously released, the redhat next to him snapping, “Show some respect for your Princes, Captain.”

The reality of the situation hit him then, like a sharp slap across the face. It had been a lie. All of it. The entire evening was based on a lie. What had been a strange and intoxicating evening of adventures with a strange and intoxicating man was now tarnished. A rush of shame flooded down John’s spine as the thought of the things he had done and the things he’d said to “Sherlock”. He was a right fool, opening up that way, something he never did with his sister or his Army mates. 

John blew out his breath through his nose. Holding Prince William’s eye, he bowed, stiff and resentful.

“Come along, William.” Mycroft or Prince Henry (God, there were too many names to remember) said, placing his hand on Prince William’s elbow.

Prince William stood stock still. “Please, come with us.”

John glared at him. “Are you going to command me?”

Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I am asking you.”

John was livid, and he was also suddenly exhausted. He had no desire to go anywhere with them, but he also wanted to be as far away from the Colonel and his redhats as possible. Leaving now would allow him to scarper as soon as he got outside the barrack gates. His sister’s flat wasn’t too far from here and if he got away quickly, he could kip for a few hours before he needed to be on parade at Woolwich Common. 

Decision made, he nodded perfunctorily and followed behind the Princes as they turned to leave the ballroom. Major Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look before falling into step beside John.

“Bloody princes. Just my sodding luck,” John muttered under his breath.

The crowd of revellers parted like the Red Sea as their small group made its way to the exit. Embarrassed by the attention, despite knowing they were gawking at the bloody royals and not himself, John kept his head down. They quickly passed through the hall, down the corridor and out through the main door, fresh air smacking against John’s anger-red cheeks.

Outside the gate, Prince Henry once again grabbed Prince William by the elbow and propelled him towards the street.

At his side, Major Lestrade turned and said, “Thank you for looking after him, Captain.”

John snorted, glaring at Prince William’s back. “Just doing my duty, Sir.”

With that, John abruptly turned to the left and started walking away from the barracks, leaving the Major and his wayward princes behind. Good fucking riddance.

He had made it approximately fifty meters when he heard his name being called. Squaring his shoulders, he continued on towards Chelsea Bridge. The Thames was just up ahead and he was desperate to cross it, to put all this nonsense behind him.

“John!”

There were footsteps approaching at a clip. _Head down, Watson. Just march._

“John! Please let me explain!”

Prince William was at his shoulder now. With a disbelieving shake of his head, John kept walking, but spit out, “Not much to explain. Just a bit of a lark, wasn’t it?”

From behind them, John heard, “William. We must depart immediately.”

“Oh, do shut up, Mycroft,” he shouted and then turned to John again, “John, please. The situation was...complicated.”

Complicated. _Complicated?_

John fumed.

He drew to a stop and rounded on Prince William. “You lied to me all night long, because you’re a prince and you think you can do whatever you like.”

“On the contrary!”

By that point Prince Henry and Major Lestrade had caught up and both looked extremely displeased at their causing a scene on the street. John just wanted to be away from the lot of them.

Looking down his nose at his younger brother, Prince Henry said coolly, “Major Lestrade, will you please flag down a taxi for us? I believe it will be more expedient than ringing for a car. William, we must depart. Papa and Mummy were expecting us over an hour ago.”

John realised with a jolt that he was referring to the King and Queen and the situation took on an entirely new level of surreal.

“Give us a moment!” Prince William spat.

John rolled his eyes and started moving again, practically running across Chelsea Bridge. He was breathing hard and his leg twinged painfully. John grunted when he remembered his cane was lost. He pushed on, certain that he wouldn’t be followed much farther once he reached the other side. Surely between the two of them, Lestrade and Prince Henry would have wrangled Prince William into a taxi before long.

He wasn’t so lucky. He could still hear Prince William following behind him.

“John, please allow me to apologise.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” After a moment, he added, “Your Highness.”

They continued walking down the pavement while having this ridiculous conversation. It was starting to feel like more and more of a farce. After they crossed the bridge, Battersea Power Station, a black behemoth against the night sky, towered over them on the left. They’d lost their pursuers at some point, but John didn’t want to wait for them to show back up.

“I wish you would not refer to me in that manner.”

“No? So what do I call you? My Prince? Prince William?”

“Sherlock is fine.”

“That isn’t a name you made up?”

Sherlock looked mildly affronted. “No, Sherlock is my middle name. It is what my family call me.”

John snorted. “I don’t think your brother or parents would approve of that.” 

“I approve of it.” He sounded strangely adrift.

John felt his annoyance seeping out of him but tried to keep hold of it, even as it slipped through his fingers. “Well, you made a first-class prat out of me, _Sherlock_!”

“Well, I had to!” Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air, blood-stained handkerchief fluttering brightly in the dim light. “In case you have not noticed, I live my life in a bubble. I have never made a cup of blooming tea for myself, let alone been out on my own. Not once, not properly. I am always chaperoned, hence Major Lestrade’s presence. I am aware that it might sound ridiculous, but I needed to be away from it all, to know how the people were celebrating, and tonight nobody gave a damn who I was. If I had not ended up in your taxi, I would never have had the opportunity to just be...ordinary, on the most extraordinary night of my life.”

John felt like all the air had been pushed from his lungs. 

“I don’t think you could ever be ordinary, Sherlock.” It sounded like an accusation, but he was fairly certain he hadn’t meant it that way. As shocking as the revelation that Sherlock was, in fact, Prince William had been, there was still something amazing about Sherlock that John could not deny.

But clearly Sherlock had had the same thought, for he said, “Please do not mock me, John. I was being sincere.”

“No, Sherlock. Sorry, I didn’t mean…” John drew a breath and tried again. “I wasn’t mocking you. I just doubt that anyone would ever consider you ordinary, not you because, well, you’re brilliant. Even so, you still could have told me the truth.”

“Would you have understood?”

As much as he wanted to hold onto his anger, John realised that Sherlock was right. He probably wouldn’t have understood. There was no way for Sherlock to just go out on the town and have a bit of a drink and a laugh when he was Prince William. And, if John really considered it, he probably got to know Sherlock better than anyone else outside his family due to the freedom of him not being “royal” for the night. 

“I am sorry, John. It was not my intention to deceive you.”

Sherlock was so earnest and yet so frustrated at the same time, and John found it all so bloody endearing, God help him. He smiled, a small, secret smile just for Sherlock. 

Finally, he said, “I know, and it’s fine.”

Sherlock visibly relaxed at that and he met John’s smile with one of his own. 

From the street beside them, a voice barked, “William, stop this foolishness immediately.” 

A taxi was idling at the pavement with Prince Henry and Major Lestrade seated inside. The Prince was glaring out the open window nearest them, while Lestrade stifled a yawn from the passenger seat. Sherlock considered them briefly and then turned to John.

“You said were going to your sister’s. Can I come with you?”

“No, William,” Prince Henry barked.

With a roll of his eyes, looking every inch the annoyed younger brother, Sherlock said, “Mycroft, I cannot return in this state. What would Papa and Mummy think? And it is possible that the good Major Lestrade would be punished for allowing harm to come to me. I shall go with John to make myself presentable and then return to the palace, all shiny and new.” He turned to John, “Is that all right? Will your sister mind?”

John shook his head with a laugh at the thought; his sister lived for fun and spontaneity. John, though younger, was always more responsible. And anyway - “She’s not home. Off with her friends at some party or another.”

“Do you mind?”

Like he could ever say no to Sherlock. Despite feeling a sense of inevitability, John attempted an ambivalent shrug. “No, it’s okay. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Thank you. So there you have it, Mycroft, you and the Major return and make some excuse for my absence. John has proven himself a man of his word - just ask Lestrade - and he will ensure that I get back to the Palace without further incident.”

In the taxi, Prince Henry rubbed his temple in frustration. John could imagine Sherlock being a nightmare of a younger brother and Prince Henry had probably put up with a lot over the years. He smothered a grin at the thought.

The brothers stared at each other for a few seconds, communicating in minute expressions that only they could interpret. John glanced back and forth between them attempting to understand, but it all happened too quickly. 

“I shall do my best, Sherlock, but I cannot guarantee you will not face some consequence upon your return.” Turning to the taxi driver, he said, “To Buckingham Palace, if you please.”

They watched the taxi pull away, make a slow turn in the roundabout up ahead, and then drive past them in the opposite direction, towards Westminster. Sherlock had an impish smile on his face and John couldn’t help but laugh.

“Come on, you nutter.”

Sherlock fell into step beside him. “Is it far to your sister’s home?”

John shook his head. “No, just about ten minutes more.” 

 

~~ Two-forty-five in the morning~~

Matching Sherlock’s long stride, it felt like a short walk indeed back to Harry’s flat. As they approached the street door, John wondered if Sherlock had ever set foot in a working class neighbourhood, let alone a slightly dilapidated house, now divided into three separate flats.

John fished the key out of his jacket pocket and inserted it into the lock. The hinges creaked loudly as the door opened, which could really use some grease; John made a mental note to fix it at some point. He gestured for Sherlock to precede him up the stairs, but before he could raise his foot to the first step, the door of flat A opened and the tired face of an older woman appeared.

“John, it’s so late!”

John cringed. “Sorry, Mrs H. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

She flapped a hand at them. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I had a bit of a late one myself. Mrs Turner came round for a celebratory glass and to listen to the King’s speech. Did you hear it? Poor old boy, never wanted the job, did he? Got on with it though.” Looking at Sherlock properly, she gasped, “What happened to you, dear?”

“Oh!” Sherlock touched his nose with a wince. “I am perfectly all right, I assure you. Simply a misunderstanding that, unfortunately, resulted in an elbow to my nose. John is going to patch me up.”

“Isn’t he wonderful?” Mrs Hudson asked, gazing fondly at John. “Always willing to lend a helping hand. You are lucky to count him as a friend, young man.”

“I know,” replied Sherlock.

Uncomfortable with the compliments, John ruffled a hand through his hair. “Er, Mrs Hudson, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, Harry’s landlady.”

Sherlock strode forward and clasped Mrs Hudson’s hand warmly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Hudson, and apologies again for waking you.”

Mrs Hudson looked pleased as punch. “Oh, away with you both. Go get that nose sorted out and let an old woman sleep.” She shooed them up the stairs and when they reached Harry’s door, John heard the soft ‘snick’ of Mrs Hudson’s door closing down below.

“Come on, just through here. Don’t mind the mess - Harry’s a poor housekeeper. Mrs Hudson takes pity on her sometimes.”

Harry’s flat was a series of small rooms - a sitting room with an old settee and a few odd side tables, a bedroom with barely enough room for a bed and a bureau, a kitchen with a tiny table and two chairs, and a washroom no bigger than a cupboard. Harry loved it, and it was more than John had to his name. Sherlock looked around, taking in the state of the flat, and John hoped he wouldn’t judge the Watsons too harshly.

“Here. Take off your coat and jacket and I’ll see what I can do about the blood on the lapels. There’s a washroom through there so you can clean your face and when you’re done, I’ll take a look at your nose just to make sure it’s not broken.”

Sherlock followed his directives and divested himself of his grey coat and the tweed jacket he wore underneath, before disappearing into the lav. While he was occupied, John turned to the task of Sherlock’s coat. First, he removed his own uniform coat and hat, laying them gently over the armchair in the sitting room and taking a moment to revel in the relief of being out of his stuffy regimentals.

Heading back through to the kitchen, John assessed the state of Harry’s cupboards. Had he been at the barracks, he would have access to ammonia or hydrogen peroxide, but seeing as this was Harry and she barely had food in her cupboards, he’d have to be a bit more creative in this bloodstain removal. Cornstarch and salt water would take too long, so that really only left white vinegar. John dug around and finally, buried under various foodstuffs, John triumphantly pulled out a small bottle of vinegar.

He set to pouring small amounts of vinegar onto the drops of blood that dotted both the jacket and tweed coat, trying to ignore the fact that both of these garments were probably obscenely expensive and wanting to avoid any trouble for damaging them.

Sherlock emerged as John was putting the cap back on the bottle of vinegar and reshelving it. He stood in braces with his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, forearms thin and pale. John forced himself to focus on Sherlock’s face, now clean, but his nose did appear a bit red and swollen. Not worryingly so, but John wanted to take a look anyway.

“Take a seat. Let’s look at that nose.” He pulled out one of the chairs and stood back so Sherlock could sit down.

Once seated, Sherlock proved to be an oddly compliant patient. 

John tilted his head back to have a better view up his nostrils, not the most flattering angle but he wanted to ensure that the bleeding had stopped. He could see a bit of dried blood but no bright red indicating fresh bleeding.

“Bleeding’s stopped. How does it feel when you move your nose?”

In response, Sherlock scrunched his nose up and gave it an adorable little wiggle. John smothered a giggle at the sight and Sherlock grinned up at him, pleased.

“I’m going to palpate along your nose a bit. Let me know if it’s too painful.”

John pressed on either side of the bridge of his nose and moved slowly downward, keeping his touch gentle but firm enough to feel the bones under the skin. Sherlock flinched minutely when he pressed near his nostrils - bruised, most likely. John continued his examination along Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones, just to ensure there was no underlying fracture, but Sherlock did not react negatively to any areas of pressure.

Beneath his fingers, Sherlock’s skin was pale, smooth and beautiful; John’s hands looked unusually tanned in comparison. He watched in fascination as his fingers travelled across Sherlock’s face, examination long over. Sherlock sat, silent, letting him explore, a soft flush spreading across his cheeks.

The flat was quiet and the air around them felt charged. Distantly, John knew the seconds were ticking by as he continued to trace light patterns over Sherlock’s skin. With everything that had happened tonight, a complicated mix of emotions was coursing through him, but the one currently at the forefront was attraction. A sense of being pulled towards Sherlock, just like on Sloane Street, and he was loath to let this moment end, not wanting to acknowledge the reality of their situation. Now that he knew Sherlock was, in fact, Prince William, he understood deep down that this connection between them would only last for this one night. How could they possibly continue this...liaison given the difference in status between them and the public nature of Sherlock’s life? John couldn’t see how it would work.

John was startled out of his reverie by Sherlock’s hands coming up to grip his wrists, pulling at him so that John’s hands were more firmly holding his face. With four points of connection, they held eye contact for an eternity and John was certain every thought and emotion was evident on his face. As was his way, Sherlock undoubtedly read it all, and he smiled, eyes soft, resigned and apologetic. 

Slowly, John leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to those beautiful, full lips. 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed with a sigh.

Reluctantly, John straightened up and dropped his hands from Sherlock’s face. It was hard to let go, but he needed to put some distance between them or later, when this dream of an evening came to its inevitable end, it would just hurt all the more.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, in an pathetic attempt to refocus the moment. 

He hadn’t eaten since he’d wolfed down a meager dinner in the mess hall earlier, and since he hadn’t planned on being out until all hours, John realised that he was absolutely starving.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I could eat.”

John coughed and moved farther into the kitchen, assessing their options. Something simple and quick, that’s all he had the energy for.

“Scrambled eggs?”

“That sounds delightfully pedestrian.”

“Oh, shut it, you.”

Sherlock smirked.

“For that, you can make some tea,” John declared, gathering a few eggs from the pantry, “I’ll give you step-by-step instructions.”

With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair and stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking a bit lost.

John laughed. “Grab the kettle on the stove and fill it with water from the tap.” 

Sherlock plucked the kettle off the burner where it rested and inspected it suspiciously as he moved to the sink. Shaking his head, John dropped a small pat of butter into the pan and as it melted, he heard the tap turn on and the metallic sound of water hitting the bottom of the kettle. 

Kettle full, Sherlock returned and John struck a match to light a second burner. 

“And now we wait for it to boil.”

“Thrilling.”

“Isn’t it? The tea is in the tin just there and the teapot is on the draining board. This seems like a three-scoop night - don’t tell Harry.”

Sherlock went to fix the teapot and John whisked the eggs around the pan with a fork as they started to cook and added a pinch of salt.

By the time the eggs were done, the kettle still hadn’t boiled so they sat down at the table and dug into their middle-of-the-night meal, served on mismatched plates and eaten with cheap tin forks, of which John was hyper aware, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. 

A whistle pierced the air and, passing Sherlock a tea towel, John said, “The handle will be hot. Now just fill up the teapot and we’ll let it steep for a few minutes.” John yawned. “The stronger the better.”

Sherlock poured the water with the concentration of a professional chemist and carefully carried the full teapot over to the table as if it might explode in his hands.

John smiled around his forkful of eggs. 

Looking pleased as he sat down, Sherlock proceeded to wolf down the remainder of his eggs. For all that he seemed vaguely unenthusiastic about the possibility of food earlier, he'd certainly found an appetite.

Since he finished first, John got up and plucked two teacups from the draining board, again mismatched, and set them on the table.

“How do you take your tea? No sugar, I’m afraid, but I think Harry has a bit of milk somewhere so we don’t have to drink it black.”

“No sugar?”

John shouldn’t be surprised that rations did not extend to the royal family. “No, Harry’s not good at holding back, so she tends to use up her ration of sugar within days. I hope you are okay with unsweetened tea.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose again (and again John found it adorable). “If I must.”

“You must. Okay, you can pour, I’ll grab the milk.”

Soon they had two steaming cups of moderately milked tea in front of them and John savoured it. The scrambled eggs had helped the overwhelming fatigue that had settled upon him, but his eyes still felt a bit gritty, so he hoped the tea would perk him up a bit.

Across from him, Sherlock sipped his tea so properly. Back straight, elbow tucked in, precise movements. Years of eating meals out in the field had dulled John’s manners and he felt positively barbaric in comparison. 

“Congratulations on making your first cup of tea, Your Highness.”

Sherlock glared.

John set down his empty cup and leaned back in his chair, content. 

“Would you care for another cup?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to the teapot. He seemed oddly eager to pour again and John wasn’t going to deny him.

“Mm, please.”

Sherlock went about fixing a second cup for them both and they fell into a companionable silence as they sipped Harry’s tea, stealing glances at each other and not wanting to burst this hushed bubble that had surrounded them.

After awhile, however, reality crept back in. John glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece in the sitting room and was surprised to see that it was gone four in the morning.

“Shit! Sherlock, shouldn’t you be getting back?”

Sherlock groaned. “You sound like Mycroft.”

From what John had experienced of the elder prince, he knew this was not a compliment. Even so, he felt like he had a duty to return Sherlock home. _To Buckingham Palace_ , his mind supplied.

Reluctantly Sherlock agreed and John, who had forgotten about Sherlock’s coat and jacket, rushed to scrub at the stains, which the vinegar had thankfully lifted. He passed the newly cleaned (and slightly fragrant) garments to Sherlock and went to retrieve his own coat and hat from the back of the armchair. 

Soon they were ready to depart, and John suggested walking back towards Chelsea Bridge. It was unlikely that a taxicab would be passing through the quiet streets of Harry’s neighbourhood at this hour.

They tiptoed down the stair and John, remembering the sound the door had made when they’d entered, gently eased it back, all in an effort not to wake Mrs Hudson again.

Once they were out on the street, the walk back towards Chelsea seemed to pass by in mere seconds. In John’s experience, the things you are dreading always arrive much too quickly. As the Thames drew closer, John couldn’t find any words to say to fill the silence and it seemed like Sherlock was in a similarly pensive mood. 

No taxis in sight, they ended up crossing back over Chelsea Bridge on foot, the sky beginning to lighten as sunrise drew nearer. Eventually, they flagged down a cab near Grosvenor Road. 

Sherlock spoke for the first time since leaving the flat to give their destination to the driver. “Would you please take us to Buckingham Palace?” With an audience other than John, Sherlock slipped back into the proper comportment of his breeding. 

At this hour, even on VE Day, the roads were remarkably quiet, with only a few military vehicles, delivery lorries and taxis out. It meant that the drive to Buckingham Palace seemed to take no time at all. They were approaching the walled gardens behind the palace when Sherlock slid his hand across the seat and linked his pinkie around John’s where it rested on the seat between them.

A connection. A reassurance. An anchor. 

John smiled.

And then the driver was pulling around to the front of the palace and stopping near the Victoria Memorial. The Mall itself was mostly deserted, although John could see a few persistent revellers in the distance, who would soon wake up, most likely hungover, in the pale light that filtered through the London streets.

“This do you, gents?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock just jumped out of the taxi.

“Yes, this is great, thanks,” John said, pulling some coins out of his pocket and handing them over to the driver.

Sherlock stood next to the taxi, waiting for John to exit, and then he strode over to the gold-tipped, wrought iron gate and spoke quietly to one of the guards on duty. There was a flurry of activity behind the gate and a door was promptly opened to allow them through. 

Walking beside Sherlock towards one of the many doors at the front of the palace, nerves suddenly descended upon John and his palms started to sweat. What was he doing here? No really, what?

Another guard opened the door as they approached, and Sherlock ducked inside. John hesitated, reflecting with disbelief on the current state of his life. With a deep, fortifying breath, he stepped forward into a dim corridor of Buckingham Palace.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it! Here it is, guys, the final installment of 'we have never seen a greater day than this'! Thank you so much for going on this journey with me and I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I have. It'll be hard to say goodbye to these two!
> 
> And one final thank you to my amazing betas for their continued support, encouragement and advice in shaping and finishing this story - @zigster-ao3, @eternaljohnlock and @88thparallel you are wonderful and I'm so grateful!

~~five o’clock in the morning~~

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was nervous upon entering his own home. 

Throughout his youth, Sherlock had, more or less, run riot around the palace—exploring the secret passages and servants quarters, claiming a corner of the garden as a pirate’s hideaway (frowned upon immensely by his father given the trouble actual pirates had caused their forebears), running away from governesses and tutors, performing ‘experiments’ in the palace kitchens and leaving behind scorch marks that had to be scoured for hours. He submitted to the punishments that followed this behaviour with a sense of immense irritation and was back to misbehaving shortly thereafter. Not one of these chastisements caused him to feel any concern about the consequences of his actions. Not one. He had never before truly worried about how he might be received by his mother and father.

This was different. He felt stretched thin, nerves frayed, and the cause of his worry was currently marching behind him. Sherlock wondered what Papa and Mummy would make of John, for it simply was not protocol for guests to arrive at the palace without some warning. He usually relished keeping them on their toes, but in this instance, he was desperate for it to go smoothly. And never mind the hundreds of staff that flitted through the palace, who seemed to thrive on gossiping about the undignified behaviour of the second son, for Prince William turning up at dawn with an unknown man would certainly set tongues wagging throughout the palace. 

Sherlock could tell that John was overawed by being in Buckingham Palace. Most commoners were. Despite his outwardly calm appearance, John was breathing harshly through his nose, as though high on the adrenaline of battle. John’s distress caused Sherlock to also feel a pang of guilt for thrusting this upon him, but it was necessary. The only way to ensure John did not experience any repercussions for their adventures tonight was to have him here and grant him the protection of his family. 

Sherlock may be nervous, but John could handle being thrown into this world, of that he was certain.

Quietly, they slipped through the darkened corridors leading to the royal apartments. Even at this hour, footmen were on hand to open doors as Sherlock approached and they proceeded undeterred without a word spoken. 

After one final door, Sherlock and John entered a bright antechamber, the wood panels having been removed from the windows that surrounded the first floor the previous day, allowing the early morning sunlight to stream through them. Across the way, a carpeted staircase rose to meet the balcony that surrounded the room, and Sherlock was horrified to see Papa and Mummy waiting for him at the top. He had hoped to slip into the drawing room with some time for John to acclimate before being forced to deal with meeting the King and Queen. Apparently, it was not to be so. They must have been alerted the moment he and John turned up at the gate. 

Above them, Papa and Mummy looked stern and unimpressed. While they were both adept at schooling their expressions to suit the moment, regardless of their true thoughts and feelings, Sherlock was fairly certain that ‘stern and unimpressed’ was a fair summation of their current moods. He glimpsed Mycroft and Major Lestrade off to the side observing the proceedings; Mycroft had his usual air of disappointed superiority, while Lestrade appeared tired and anxious. While it had been Lestrade’s duty to look after him and Mycroft tonight, Sherlock was reluctant to wish him any ill will for failing to keep tabs on him. He seemed like a decent chap and Sherlock was momentarily concerned about what repercussions he might face, just as he was with John.

Shaking himself of that niggling worry and with a burst of false determination, Sherlock strode across the foyer and came to a stop at the foot of the stair, John close behind him.

“Papa. Mummy,” he said, turning slightly to address them both. “This is Captain John Watson, my friend, and he is going to eat breakfast with us.”

Papa pursed his lips and said nothing, staring hard at his younger son.

Mummy looked back and forth between him and John for a moment before saying, “I do not think that would be appropriate.”

However, Sherlock was resolved about keeping John by his side. “Well, I do. When I was parted from Mycroft and Major Lestrade, Captain Watson nobly stepped in to accompany me this evening and saw that no harm came to me. For that, I am grateful and it seems it would only be decent to invite him to join us for breakfast as a means of demonstrating our gratitude for his service.”

Frown deepening and enunciation precise, Papa replied, “Interesting choice of phrasing, Sherlock. For as Mycroft tells it, your parting was more of an escape.”

Sherlock took a moment, considering. “The Ritz was so terribly dull, Papa.”

Impertinence, he thought, was a good cover for his nervousness. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John smirk briefly and then stifle it as quickly as it appeared. From up above, he heard a strangled cough and flicked his eyes up to see Lestrade cover his mouth. Pleased at having made them laugh, Sherlock smiled up at his father, sweet and falsely innocent. Papa sighed.

There was a moment of silence, during which his parents studied him with a sense of displeased resignation, and Sherlock wondered how they would choose to proceed. Now that Sherlock had extended an invitation to breakfast, it would be impossibly rude to send John away. While they deliberated, Sherlock continued to smile up at them, guileless and expectant; an approach he had often employed as a child to smooth ruffled feathers and get what he wanted.

Finally, Mummy said, “Thank you, Captain Watson, for looking after the Prince. Breakfast will be served in the Morning Room shortly, if you care to join us. You as well, Major Lestrade.”

John executed a short bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” 

Lestrade followed suit and bowed his head to acknowledge the invitation.

With that, the King and the Queen turned and disappeared through the heavy, carved wooden doors behind them, and Mycroft, a sour expression upon his face, followed. 

“This way, John,” Sherlock said, mounting the stairs, footsteps hushed on the plush carpeting. 

At the top, they were joined by Lestrade.

“Sir,” he said, nodding to Sherlock, and then addressed John. “Captain.”

“Hello again, Lestrade. As you see, I made it home in one piece.”

“Yes, very good, Sir.”

“Major,” John said, with a salute and a wicked grin. “You must be famished after the night you have had!”

Sherlock released an undignified snort of laughter before he could catch it. John was wonderful. 

Lestrade just sighed and replied, “It has been a rather trying evening.” 

He did appear exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and a slow gait; he would, most likely, prefer to be anywhere else than partaking in breakfast at the palace, but Sherlock thought that his continued presence may make John feel more comfortable at the royal breakfast table so he was grateful that the Major was joining them.

Mouth stretching into a genuine smile, Sherlock said, “Just think of it this way, Major—at least you shall receive a fine meal as a recompense for all the trouble you have endured tonight, and then you will be dismissed to rest your weary head.”

“That’s something, I suppose.”

John clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get some food into you, Sir.”

Sherlock turned and led them through the elegant corridors to the Morning Room. When they entered, a tea service had been arranged near the fireplace at the far end of the room and Papa, Mummy and Mycroft were already seated on the sofas and armchairs arranged there. Sherlock approached, trailed by his military entourage, and a footman promptly began pouring tea for all three of them. No one spoke.

Sherlock sat on the only free sofa, leaving space for John to join him. However, John and Lestrade remained standing, sipping their tea, looking out of place and uncomfortable in their slightly rumpled uniforms. He wanted to ask them to sit, but they would almost certainly refuse, and no permission to be seated seemed to be coming from Papa or Mummy either. Suddenly, he felt awkward himself, wanting to stand back up to alleviate the strain between the royal family and the officers. 

The silence was unbearable. Occasionally, the clink of teacups being set down on saucers broke it, joined by the sounds of the footmen laying the table for breakfast at the other end of the room.

Sherlock glanced up at John, who gave him a slight smile and a wink. 

Finally, after long moments of discomfort, a footman approached. “Your Majesties, breakfast is served.”

As was proper, Papa and Mummy rose and made their way to the table first. Papa sat at the head of the table, with Mummy at his left and Mycroft at his right. Sherlock took his customary seat next to Mummy and before anyone could argue, he turned to the footman who ushered them to the table, “Captain Watson will be here, next to me.”

The footman nodded and pulled the chair next to Sherlock’s out so that John could be seated. Opposite him, another footman pulled out the chair for Major Lestrade. 

Breakfast at Buckingham Palace was usually a family affair, so it was curious to have other people join them. The space to his left was typically unoccupied, as was the one directly across from him, leaving Sherlock to often feel like the odd man out of his family, not included in the inner circle of the King, the Queen and the dutiful heir. John’s presence next to him here made him feel less alone, and he brushed his elbow against John’s, much like they had while seated at the small table at Chelsea Barracks, just because he could and he wanted to.

Plates were set before them, piled high with cured ham, salmon, boiled eggs perched in fine porcelain cups, mushrooms and apricots. The sight of the perfectly prepared food on the perfectly arranged royal china put his earlier meal with John into stark contrast. The food in the palace was always delicious, but Sherlock thought he preferred the cozy easiness of scrambled eggs on mismatched plates to the unrelenting formality of this meal.

Papa picked up his knife and fork and began to eat his meal, after which the others followed suit. Again, the silence was oppressive.

It was broken a few minutes later, unexpectedly, by John. 

“We heard your speech, Sir. We were in a pub and they had the radio turned up so everyone could hear.”

Papa paused his cutting of the ham on his plate and set down his cutlery, eyes trained on John. “Did you indeed? I presume that everyone was too occupied by their celebrations to take much notice.”

Sherlock watched this interaction with fascination.

John shook his head. “No, Sir. They listened quite respectfully—” He cut his eyes to Sherlock and Sherlock flushed at the memory of his behaviour in the pub, all the more embarrassing now that John knew he was speaking of his own father. John continued, “—and they liked it very much. I think they were grateful to you for your resolute leadership during the war. It helped a lot of people, Sir.”

“That is very kind of you to say, Captain Watson. We all did our part, and it is I who should be thanking you and Major Lestrade for your service. It is due to the courage and fortitude of men and women like yourselves that we won this war.”

“Oh, thank you, Sir.” John nodded in the direction of Papa, looking distinctly uncomfortable. 

Papa, eminently capable of smoothing over any awkward social interactions in a way that Sherlock was not, moved the conversation on quickly. “Where did you meet my son, Captain? After his escape from the Ritz, no doubt,” he asked, a twinkle of good humour in his eye.

John gave a brief chuckle. “As a matter of fact, we met in a taxi. I was on my way to my sister’s in Battersea and he tried to commandeer it to his own destination.”

“A taxi? Oh, honestly,” sighed his mother.

“And where were you thinking of going in this taxi?” his father asked, shifting his gaze to Sherlock.

After a moment, he mumbled, “Trafalgar Square.”

Bemused, Papa nodded and asked, “Did it live up to your expectations?”

Everyone was staring at him. Having his exploits picked at was thoroughly embarrassing. 

He had had a marvellous time with John and yet the idea of sharing their adventures with his parents, and loathsome Mycroft, was unfathomable. Whatever he would say to describe what they had done and where they had gone would only seem silly or ridiculous in their eyes. And a part of him wanted to keep these memories private, just between him and John, especially considering what had happened in the alley off Sloane Street. No, he definitely did not want to share his memories of the evening with anyone besides John.

“Yes and no,” Sherlock said finally, offering nothing else to answer his father’s question. 

“Mmm. Major Lestrade reported finding you in Knightsbridge. That is quite a way from Trafalgar Square.”

Sherlock squirmed but refused to let his discomfort reign. “Congratulations on your extensive knowledge of London geography, Papa.”

Papa did not rise to the jab, unsurprising as they had guests. Instead he simply waited patiently for Sherlock to answer. 

“Okay, yes, we learned of a party near Curzon Road and ventured there after Trafalgar Square,” Sherlock began grudgingly, and then the rest just tumbled out, an unstoppable rush of words. “That, however, did not turn out as we expected so we were seeking out another public house in Knightsbridge, when we came across an injured soldier, and John, being an Army medic, assessed his injuries and ensured he remained in stable condition until an ambulance arrived. Seeing as he had quite a serious head wound, I do worry for what would have become of the young soldier had John not been there to treat him. He truly is a hero and a credit to his Majesty’s army.”

“Sherlock!” John hissed, fork clattering to his plate and a flush rising on his neck.

Sherlock looked from John to the other faces around the table and only then realised that he may have gone a bit overboard with that soliloquy about the merits of one Captain John Watson. Mycroft rolled his eyes, while Lestrade chuckled silently and his parents had identical expressions of suppressed amusement. 

Sherlock dipped his head and focused on eating his breakfast, the food losing some of its taste as he stewed in his discomfiture. A moment later, John pressed a reassuring elbow against his and he felt marginally better.

The conversation ceased and they continued their meals in a more comfortable silence. Mummy finished first and excused herself from the table, extending her warmest wishes to both John and Lestrade before exiting the Morning Room. 

Papa made to follow, rising from his chair. “Gentlemen, thank you again for your service and for attending to the Princes Henry and William last night. I appreciate it more than I can say. Major, you are dismissed, but please take your time finishing your breakfast.”

“Much appreciated, Sir. Thank you,” Lestrade said with a nod.

“Papa!” Sherlock called as his father moved from the table. 

“Yes, Sherlock?”

He hesitated, cheeks heating up. “I owe John some money.” 

Papa’s lips pursed. Discussions of money were frowned upon, but Sherlock could not see any other way of ensuring John was reimbursed before he had to leave the palace to be on parade.

“How much?” he asked.

Sherlock had absolutely no idea how much money John had spent over the course of the evening between the taxi journeys and the drinks and everything else. He looked at John for guidance, eyes wide.

John laughed. “Seven pounds, eleven and four pence.”

Papa nodded. “We do not keep much here, but I shall do a whip-round the footmen.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

With a final half-smile, Papa turned and walked out of the Morning Room. With his departure, the four remaining diners lapsed into silence once again. Mycroft still seemed rather irked about the events of the previous night and had only spoken in clipped sentences with an occasional glare thrown Sherlock’s way throughout the morning. Lestrade was focused on his food, perhaps thinking that the sooner he completed his meal, the sooner he could be away from them all. Sherlock did not blame him. 

Beside him, John was happily tucking into the remaining portion on his plate. After taking a large bite, he set down his cutlery, glanced across the table and then at Sherlock, shooting him a covert wink.

While Sherlock had been worried about how this experience would affect John, John himself was clearly enjoying himself. He was relaxed and cheeky, despite the unfamiliar, ornate surroundings, and the fact that he was so effortlessly himself, when Sherlock frequently felt awkward and out of place, caused him a small amount of jealousy, but mostly he was delighted. 

At John’s wink, he started to chuckle, which set John off into stifled giggles, and the pair of them dissolved into what was apparently a fit of disgraceful laughter judging by the look Mycroft gave them. It only made Sherlock laugh harder.

“I am afraid I have rather lost my appetite,” Mycroft drawled, placing his napkin on the table and rising from his chair. 

Under his breath to John, Sherlock muttered, “That is a first.” 

John placed his head in his hands and his shoulders shook with silent laughter.

From across the table, Sherlock shot his brother a bright smile before Mycroft turned and strode from the room. Then he turned to Lestrade and said, “I am terribly sorry that you had to deal with him all evening, Major. He is such a bore.”

Lestrade kept his face composed, but Sherlock could see a glint of humour in his eyes as he said, “I have no doubt that you know exactly how to push his buttons, Sir.”

Sherlock grinned. “Correct. I have made irritating Mycroft my lifelong mission.”

“You have been successful thus far.”

“Oh, I know.”

Shortly thereafter, Lestrade took a final sip of tea and bid them farewell, leaving Sherlock alone with John at the table. Next to him, John was still erupting with occasional giggles, which seemed to fizz up Sherlock’s spine every time he heard one.

Having finished his breakfast, John settled back in his chair. “You just can’t resist, can you?”

“Cannot resist what, John?” 

John snorted. “Oh, stop with that look, Sherlock. You are anything but innocent. You’re a menace.”

He shrugged. “Mycroft and Papa make it so easy.”

“I can’t believe you complimented the King on his knowledge of London geography.”

That set them off again.

Finally, John pulled himself together and sighed. “I’m to be on parade in an hour. I should probably get moving if I want to make it in time.”

As much as he did not want John to leave, the possibility of him being late was also unacceptable. 

“If you are worried about being late, I could ask Papa to make a call? He is rather influential,” Sherlock quipped, despite being serious in his offer. “Actually, I could make a call.”

John smiled. “No, that’s okay. I can figure it out.”

It had been twenty minutes at least since Papa had departed and he had surely found enough money to repay John by now, but Sherlock was reluctant to let their acquaintance end here, with John walking out the doors of Buckingham Palace and Sherlock having to let him.

“Or I could drive you?” The offer just burst out of him. John looked surprised as well. 

“What, really? You don’t have to do that.”

While he undoubtedly had a full schedule for the day, meetings and events that required the entire royal family, Sherlock shrugged as though driving John was not the slightest inconvenience. “Of course. I love any excuse to drive.”

~~Seven o’clock in the morning~~

The morning was warm and the sun shone brightly in the sky as Sherlock navigated the car through the still-quiet streets of London. It was true, what he had said to John, he did love to drive. It always felt like freedom, and Sherlock had had few opportunities to drive over the last few years, the exception being their annual trip to Balmoral, where he could take the Range Rover on wild treks through the grounds, fast and a bit reckless. Now, while still favouring a bit of speed, Sherlock took more care while making turns because John was in the car with him. 

Earlier, when they had reached the garage where the royal family’s many vehicles were housed, John had whistled appreciatively, eyes travelling over the large collection of Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and Jaguars, along with the more modest Vauxhalls and Renaults and a few motorbikes as well. Sherlock was used to the sight of the fleet of cars, but he could see why it’d be interesting to someone like John, who undoubtedly had never owned his own vehicle. 

Sherlock had led the way to the Daimler, always his favourite as it was smaller and easier to handle than some of the larger estate cars, and begun unsnapping the canvas roof to be stowed away at the back of the vehicle. A day like today called for a convertible.

He had watched as John delicately ran his hand over the side of the car, walking around the boot.

“Do you want to drive?” Sherlock had asked. 

John had snatched his hand back and had given an embarrassed sort of chuckle. “I never learned, and somehow I don’t think this is the time for my first lesson.”

“Another time then,” he said, forcing some jollity into his voice, despite knowing just how unlikely it was that another outing would be in the cards for them.

John’s eyes had met his and he had tilted his head, a soft smile on his face. “Another time,” he had agreed. 

Sherlock had nodded and busied himself with extricating his driving gloves from his pocket and trying to get them onto his hands without too much fumbling. As he fixed the closure of the second glove, he had glanced up to find John watching him intently and his cheeks flushed as a result. He had watched as John looked around the garage, surveying their surroundings, and then positively prowled back around the boot of the car and came to a stop directly in front of Sherlock, leaving barely a centimeter of space between them.

John had been focused on Sherlock’s hands, where he held them awkwardly between their bodies, fingers still pressing to the closure. With surety, John had reached out to grasp Sherlock’s right hand and rubbed his fingers over the fine taupe leather. The motion had been mesmerising to Sherlock, and he had tracked the movement across his knuckles in a sort of daze.

The spell had broken when John looked up and said, “You really are a posh git, aren’t you?” But his eyes, dark with intensity and a trace of humour, and his rough voice led Sherlock to realise he was not being mocked. Instead, he had felt that John rather liked some of the more pretentious aspects of his appearance and comportment. 

And so, he had rumbled back, “Yes, I am.”

“Yes, you are, you ridiculous man.”

With that, John’s lips had pressed to Sherlock’s again. It had felt like an eternity since they had last kissed. Sherlock had clasped John’s hand in his own to keep him close, allowing himself to be swept away by the feel of John’s mouth.

The kiss had not lasted long—they had both been aware of how risky it was. A servant, or worse, the King, might have walked in at any time. After a moment, they had pulled apart with hesitancy, and with a final lingering glance, they had climbed into the vehicle. Sherlock, behind the wheel, had adjusted his seat and then guided them slowly, reluctantly out of the grounds. 

Now on the road, far away from the palace and any prying eyes, Sherlock stepped on the accelerator as they moved from the more congested areas of central London to Blackheath and beyond. The wind whipped around them and John removed his hat and placed it securely in his lap.

Laughing, he said, “You’re an absolute menace on the roads!”

Sherlock grinned. “This is me taking it easy.”

“Oh, Christ.”

As Woolwich Common drew nearer, Sherlock slowed the car in an attempt to draw out these last few moments together.

“We had a good night, right?” he asked.

With a fond smile, John agreed, “We did.”

Sherlock sighed. “Do you ever wish that it could be that way always? To do what you want and go where you want without… rules and babysitters?” 

Sherlock bit his lip, afraid he had admitted too much with that question. 

John was quiet, staring out at the trees as they blurred passed on the roadside. Sherlock fidgeted as he waited for John to respond. 

“Yes, of course,” he said finally with a soft sigh. “But then, it seems that we are all stuck in one cage or another, yours is just more gilded than most. What would you do then, if you were truly free to do whatever you wanted?”

His mind reeled at the possibilities, but there was one thing that called to him like a siren. The city lived and breathed around him and yet he only flitted across the surface, seeing the sparkling halls of the grandest buildings. There was so much more to London that he had yet to learn, and the little glimpse he had tonight of this other London, an underworld beneath the city he usually saw, only made him yearn for more.

“I would disappear into the labyrinth of London,” Sherlock stated definitely. “I want to get to know the truth of this place, breathe it in—feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

Sherlock risked a glance over at the other man and noted that a small smile had appeared on John’s face.

“It can be rather grim, you realise, how us commoners live. Death, disease, poverty, worrying about how you’re going to get through each day.” John paused and then hastily added, “I don’t mean to mock your dream, don’t get me wrong. I just mean it isn’t some grand adventure, Sherlock.”

“I know, John. It is fair to say that I do not know what it is like to experience those things firsthand, but I realise the majority of the people living in this world are not so lucky to live in palaces with a host of servants and the promise of delicious feasts and frivolous entertainment. I know that, and perhaps I could do something to alleviate the strife.”

“How would you do that?”

Sherlock shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “Earlier tonight you jokingly called me ‘detective’, and while that does seem outlandish, I feel it would be something at which I would excel. I see things—patterns, clues, tells. It just happens in my brain, it is impossible to stop it, so instead of just racking up deductions about every person I meet to no effect, I could… help. Solve things, I mean, put it to use. Seems a bit more productive than finding out which noble is in debt due to excessive gambling, which footman is sleeping with which maid or how much weight Mycroft gains because of the sweet tooth he does not admit to having.”

John snorted out a surprised laugh, and Sherlock grinned at hearing it. “Never leave your dessert plate unattended around him, John. However, back to the topic at hand, simply put, the petty and frivolous intrigues of the palace are too tedious to bear, and I know there are real problems facing the people of London, so while Mycroft is initiated into the role of future monarch, I could assist people in other ways.”

“That’s quite noble, Sherlock.”

“I do so hate when people get things wrong or when problems remain unsolved.”

John laughed again at that. “Of course you do.”

Sherlock gave him a shrug in response. He was more interested in hearing about John's aspirations in this land of make believe, so he asked, “And what about you? What would you do?”

John looked hesitant. “If I could do anything?”

“Yes, if your circumstances and injury provided no barriers, what would you do?”

The response was instant. “Write.”

This was not what he was expecting John to say. He had expected an answer along the lines of ‘exactly what I have been doing, rescuing people’, but then he should have known that John, unsuspecting and seemingly conventional John, would harbour the soul of a romantic.

“Write what?” he queried, and Sherlock was pleased to note John’s discomfort at the question as he squirmed in his seat.

“A novel, perhaps. I’ve not written anything since school, but it was my favourite subject, despite being told that it would get me nowhere.”

“Now that the war is over, it seems that you have an infinite number of opportunities ahead of you, John. Perhaps there is time yet to be a writer?”

“Perhaps,” John agreed and then lapsed into silence. After a second, he added, “But for the moment, I have to focus on being an Army medic.”

Those words brought Sherlock back to reality and he realised that Woolwich Common was in sight and it would not be long before they were pulling up in front of the Royal Herbert Hospital. With that, he started to panic. Obviously, it was necessary to deliver John to the hospital so that he was on parade at the appropriate hour, however Sherlock was loathe to let him go. Once he left this car, it was very likely that Sherlock would never see him again. Every second that slipped by felt like a wasted opportunity, a moment of heartbreak.

All too quickly, the soot-covered buildings gave way to green parklands, areas of trimmed grass surrounded by wild hedgerows and ancient trees. They moved inexorably closer to the hospital and he was unable to arrest their momentum through time and space, no matter how much he wished he could. All around them, the birds were chattering wildly to greet the morning sun, but inside the car both Sherlock and John were silent. 

The remaining half mile to the hospital was a tree-lined cobblestone road that ultimately led to the grand brick building, Shooter’s Hill rising gently to the east. Sherlock drove with his breath caught in his lungs and reluctantly slowed the car to a stop at the kerb next to the large arched entrance, guarded on either side by young soldiers. 

He did not feel he could move or speak. Instead, he sat with his hands gripping the steering wheel, the fine leather of his driving gloves creaking with the pressure, and his eyes focused straight ahead. How could he possibly say goodbye after the night they had had?

There were words building up inside Sherlock, desperately bubbling inside his chest for an escape, but they would remain unspoken. This was not the place for impossible confessions or declarations. John had to be on parade, he had a duty to his fellow wounded soldiers, just as Sherlock had his own duties as prince, and it would be unfair of Sherlock to say anything more considering the circumstances. 

After a moment of panic, he felt John’s focus on him and he slowly turned his head to meet his soft grey eyes. Sherlock noted an undercurrent of solemnity in John’s expression despite the smile on his lips and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. With just a look, it felt like John was trying to bolster him, metaphorical hands reaching across the space between their bodies to prop him up as he wobbled. It was as though John could sense, and somehow understood, this torrent of emotion that was tumbling through Sherlock’s mind and John, strong, determined, unassuming John, was undaunted in the face of it. Reacting calmly when presented with crises was only natural for an accomplished Army medic, Sherlock reminded himself, but he was surprised at how grateful he was to find such a skill employed on him. Normally, he would scornfully brush off anyone’s concern for his well-being. 

Sherlock took a shuddering breath, and then another, still maintaining eye contact with John, until he felt he had control of his bodily transport once again. John performed a quick scan, as though to confirm for himself that Sherlock’s panic had passed, and then nodded in approval, giving Sherlock a reassuring smile.

Before Sherlock could even move or respond, John had pushed open the passenger door and was out onto the pavement, settling his hat back on his head and shutting the door behind him, the noise deafening to Sherlock’s ears. Assuming that nod and smile had been his farewell, Sherlock prepared himself for John squaring his shoulders and marching into the hospital without a second look. The very idea congealed in his stomach. 

Instead, John turned to the front of the car and strolled around it, only to come to a stop at Sherlock’s door and held out his hand. Sherlock looked at it stupidly, taking in the short but graceful fingers and neat fingernails, before recognising the gesture as a request to shake hands. Instead of moving to grasp those fingers, Sherlock hastily removed the driving glove on his right hand and held onto it tightly in his left. Only then did he reach out for John. 

Their hands met solidly in the vast space between them and Sherlock held on, clinging to the last few seconds of John’s presence. John allowed this for a moment, but then, when the handshake began to drag on too long, especially in view of the soldiers out front of the hospital, he gave Sherlock’s hand one final squeeze and pulled away.

“Goodbye, Sherlock. Go solve all of London’s mysteries.”

Sherlock mustered all his composure and said, “Goodbye, John.”

John stepped back from the car and Sherlock found that he could not watch John walk away. He shifted the car into gear and eased forward down the road. Never before had he experienced the piercing agony of a final goodbye.

Despite knowing John for less than a day, and accepting that their connection was only ever going to be temporary, Sherlock was surprised by the intensity of his feelings for this man. The surge of sentimentality, something he had not thought himself capable, nearly overwhelmed him. It was horrible yet he would not change a single moment. Out of all the possibilities, meeting John was the only thing of consequence that could have happened on his evening of freedom. Had their paths not crossed, he would have trundled about London, awkward and alone and thoroughly disillusioned. 

It was John who had made the night memorable, and Sherlock would cherish it always.

As he neared the corner, he allowed himself to glance at the wing mirror, catching sight of John still standing in the road. Sherlock saw him smile as he lifted a hand and waved. 

Releasing the gear stick, Sherlock raised his left hand to wave in reply, before taking the turn that blocked John from his view.

Sherlock took a deep breath, allowing the sweet, warm air to pass through his lungs and ground him in the present. All around him, people were waking to a brand new world, one in which they could grieve their losses, nurse their wounds, and celebrate what still remained. 

Overnight, Sherlock’s world had changed, too, and although there was a deep ache in his chest, he felt at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I wrote this chapter, this was the car that I envisioned Sherlock driving, although this model didn't come out until the 50s: 

**Author's Note:**

> For this story, Sherlock’s full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes Windsor and Mycroft’s is Henry Mycroft Albert Holmes Windsor. I’ve kept them as part of the House of Windsor so that some of the historical links can be kept in place. To the public, the brothers are known as Prince Henry and Prince William, but I wanted them to have names for when they are with family and other intimate connections, hence Sherlock and Mycroft.


End file.
